


The Resurrection Series

by Dolimir



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-22
Updated: 2011-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:46:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dolimir/pseuds/Dolimir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair always worried that the government might come Jim. They did, eventually, but Jim was too old, too dangerous, and too set in his ways. They took Blair instead. By the time he is free, he has changed and is practically unrecognizable. Will Jim be able to recognize his old friend? And if he does, what happens to Marcus Mallory?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He seems happy.

I rub a hand over my tired face, sighing with disgust.

Of course, he's happy. Why wouldn't he be?

I watch as he holds the restaurant door open for Megan and waves his free hand before him, smiling. They're seated right away; but, yet again, I wouldn't expect that they'd have much of a wait at two in the afternoon. The hostess leads them to a table by the front plate glass window. Unexpected, but serendipitous.

He's being charming. I can tell by the way he smiles at her. I've seen him direct that smile at co-workers and civilians alike. I even had it directed at me once or twice. The memory of those smiles kept me sane during the day and tortured me at night.

His smile makes me boil with anger, and I am immediately embarrassed by that anger. He went on with his life as I suspected he would. He had no way of knowing. Of course, a part of me, I am ashamed to say, hoped he had been writhing in as much agony as I was. If he had been in agony, then maybe he wouldn't have stopped looking for me.

How many times in my arrogance had I shouted at my captors that he would come? That he would burn their world around their ankles?

I should have known by the serenity of their responses that they knew they had nothing to worry about, but I couldn't see beyond my own screaming pain. Before he entered my world, I had been independent, but I had allowed myself to lean on him during our time together. I had gotten lax in my vigilance. But in the end, I had found my self-reliance again and had destroyed their world just as thoroughly and completely as they had destroyed mine.

When I was finally free of the shackles that had kept me bound for so many years, my only thought was to get back to Cascade. I traveled day and night, barely sleeping until I stood just within the city limits, desperate to be by his side again.

And yet, I didn't go straight home.

To this moment, I have no idea why I hesitated. I think, maybe, I was scared. Because my appearance has changed so drastically over the years, I worried what his reaction would be when he saw me. So I had gone to my refuge -- the library.

I remember standing in the middle of Rainier's athenaeum wondering what in the world I was doing, but my feet seemed to be acting of their own volition. I found myself in front of the microfiche projectors.

Two hours later I understood everything with a sickening clarity.

I was dead.

Not missing.

Not AWOL.

Dead.

Somehow they had covered my disappearance with so much evidence of my death that even God had to have be wondering why I hadn't shown up on his doorstep. No wonder Jim never looked for me.

I had prevented drawing attention to myself by biting my lower lip until it bled, not wanting to scare the students with my moans of despair.

More out of curiosity than anything else, I continued to skim through the papers, not horribly surprised by the three months of silence before he started making the papers again. His arrest record continued to be outstanding, but I could find no evidence that he still used his senses.

I'm sure he does. What was it he told me so long ago? That a sentinel was a sentinel as long as he so chooses? I can't imagine that the loss of a guide would be enough to shut them down permanently.

I lean back against the cold brick wall and chuckle harshly to myself.

I had obviously placed too much importance upon my person. Wasn't that what Shafer always told me? Isn't it ironic that for all my worrying about secret government agencies coming in the middle of the night and whisking Jim away that I would be the one to peak their interests? No one could have predicted that outcome.

Seems my sentinel was too old, too dangerous, and too set in his ways. They knew he'd never break and if, by some chance, they had succeed in making him _malleable_ , their data would have been corrupted.

Even now, I feel relief over that fact. For no matter how much I've suffered, I would never have wished that on Jim.

And so the time to leave Cascade and find my own destiny has arrived, but I find myself unable to turn away from that incandescent smile, wanting desperately to have it directed in my direction one last time.

As if hearing my thoughts, he looks out the window and smiles. A surprising warmth infuses me, taking the chill off my eternally cold bones. I return the smile, knowing full well he doesn't see me, knowing his smile wasn't directed at me.

Still smiling, even though my eyes burn with unshed tears, I push off the wall and walk down the street toward the horizon.

The thought occurs to me as I head toward the hotel that has been my temporary home that Naomi probably believes I'm dead as well. I wonder briefly if she and Jim got along while planning my funeral. The thought makes me chuckle; not a happy sound, but a sound I didn't think I was capable of making either.

Does the ability to laugh mean I'm healing on some level?

There was a time when I viewed each trip with excitement. What would I get to see? Who would I meet? What would I discover? Then came a time when I was content to stay at home -- my years with Jim. Later, when I was forced to travel, the joy had been sucked out of the experience, but then again the joy had basically been sucked out of all aspects my life so it's no surprise I didn't find any delight in travel. Now, as I stand on the brink of a new chapter in my life, I wonder if I'm even capable of finding that initial joy again.

Now that Blair Sandburg is dead, is Marcus Mallory capable of finding happiness? I contemplate visiting my namesake then decide against it. Now is not the time to revisit the past, but to step boldly into the future. Okay, maybe boldly is a little strong, but walk with my head up and my vision clear.

I smile, liking that analogy.

"Excuse me," a voice intrudes on my thoughts, almost apologetically, from behind me.

I turn, then freeze as I find my former sentinel standing a few feet away, looking as uncomfortable as I had ever seen him.

He holds up his hands by way of apology. "I'm sorry, I just thought you looked like..."

Swallowing hard, I nod and smile sympathetically, then turned back around, praying that my knees will continue to support me. He doesn't recognize me. I bite the inside of my mouth to prevent any sound from escaping. And why should he? I look nothing like I did five years ago. My hair is short, almost military-shorn. It's peppered with gray, no traces of the blond or auburn highlighted curls that once adorned my head. A scar runs deeply down my right cheek, and another across my throat. I no longer even see the look of revulsion, or worse yet pity, in people's eyes as their gazes run over me. I'm much thinner now, even thinner than when Jim and I first met, if such a thing is possible. I'm not so much skinny as I am lean. I move with economy now, no more large expressive gestures or hand waving, no more nervous pacing or bouncing on my toes.

No, Blair Sandburg has been dead for a long time.

A hand touches my shoulder and I turn again, raising an eyebrow as I do.

"I'm sorry. I'm not harassing you, really. It's just... that is...I'm sorry, Mr...."

My brilliant, brilliant sentinel. You think that by getting me to talk all the pieces will fall into place?

"Mallory," I answer, noticing him flinch slightly over the harshness of my voice. I had, long ago, screamed out the tenor tones he would remember.

"Mr. Mallory," he acknowledges.

I smile at him again, dismissing him, then turn to make my escape.

"Mr. Mallory," he says again.

I turn and sigh, loudly.

"Mr. Mallory, what are you doing here in Cascade?"

I raise an eyebrow at him and he has the common decency to look somewhat abashed.

"Why?" I croak.

"I'm...um...a detective with the Cascade Police Department."

I look at him pointedly, but my gaze shifts as Megan joins our little group.

"What's going on, Jim?" she asks, practically sentinel-soft, except I hear her. I notice Jim noticing that I heard her as well.

"I was just asking Mr. Mallory what business he has in Cascade," he explains, although his eyes never leave mine.

Soon Megan's eyes are on me as well.

"Passing through." I smile wolfishly at Megan when she flinches over the sound of my voice.

"So why were you watching us at the restaurant?" Jim persists.

Megan gasps quietly. "Jim."

"What restaurant?"

He blinks in surprise, not expecting the misdirection. "Toreros," he finally says.

I nod and force myself to smile sadly. "My wife and I used to eat there when we were in town."

I can see him turn that little piece of information over in his mind, even as he cocks his head, no doubt listening to my heart. Ah, Jim, Jim, Jim. I learned long ago to keep my emotions in check for not all people with heightened senses are as honorable as you are.

"I'm sorry we intruded," Megan said, even as she takes Jim by the elbow and tries to lead him away.

"No problem," I reply.

As I walk away, I wonder why I fought Jim's recognition so hard. Am I trying to punish him...for not coming to the rescue like I had dreamed he would? For going on with his life once I died?

No. I finally realize it's because I know with certainty that I no longer have a place in his life. Oh, if he truly realized who I was, I have no doubt he would try to integrate me back into his existence again, but I'm not that over-exuberant grad student any longer, haven't been for a long time. How does an ex-operative find peace in the domestic again?

Jim did, a voice I thought long dead reminds me.

I feel my lips curl in a parody of a smile, making a woman walking down the sidewalk steer clear around me as she passes. Ah yes, and remember what a whole human being Jim was when you found him, I counter. He was a lot like I am now, although a bit more mellow; but then again, he had Carolyn during the interim period.

I remember railing against his reticence, but now I understand who he was. I've had no one since I left, well, at least, not since Jason died. Just stoic Quantico graduates who thought they were super-heroes because they had a heighten sense or three. Patriotic idiots who threw themselves into danger for the glory of it all. How many had I kept alive, pulled out of the fire? The key I learned, as I'm sure Jim had experienced, was not to get personally involved with them. Do your job, get out if you can, survive at all costs. Although now I wonder why I had bothered.

No, there's no place for me in Jim's life. What will I to do? Settle down and become a cop? I bark out with laughter, startling myself.

This is for the best. At least, I got to see him smile one last time.

I walk at a leisurely pace through the university campus toward the fountain. I've felt its pull ever since I entered Cascade proper. For some reason, I remember this place being busier, even at two in the morning -- but there's not a soul around.

Probably for the best.

I have no idea how I'll react to the place of my birth.

Oh, not my physical birth; but the birth of who I've became. No longer a wide-eyed innocent. For the first time, I had the world explained to me in terms that even I, as Blair, could understand. It was the beginning of the end. It was where I learned my first lessons of how truly ugly the world could be.

I stop at the edge of the fountain. Streams of water dance over the surface, keeping the water oxygenated.

In one moment of compassion, Jim had screamed his defiance at death and pulled me back from the brink, had pulled me back into the light.

If only there was a way to be pulled back one last time.

I snort my amusement.

"All of my rescues are gone," I say softly, knowing and accepting the fact that there is life in the darkness just as there is in the light.

A pebble skitters behind me and, before I can blink, my reflexes kick in. My automatic is in my hand, my arm stretched straight, the barrel of my gun sited in the middle of Jim's chest.

"Do you have a permit for that, Mr. Mallory?" he asks nonchalantly.

I almost chuckle. Jim always did have the drollest sense of humor, not something many people appreciate. As time has passed, I find that his humor strikes me as funnier than it did when he originally made a quip.

I don't lower my weapon.

He takes a step closer, no doubt calculating the odds of taking it from me. I flick off the safety with my thumb to discourage his line of thinking. Understanding, he stops.

"I didn't believe it for the longest time," he says softly.

I could pretend to be ignorant of what he's telling me, but quite frankly, I don't have the energy it would take to obfuscate. I simply hold my aim steady.

"It was only when the dental records were compared to the set in our secret safety deposit box that I finally conceded you were gone. I kept telling myself if you were dead, I would feel it, somewhere down deep within myself. And I never felt that. Simon didn't understand. Hell, no one did. How could I explain the merging? How could I tell them that you were my light and I would know on a cellular level when it was extinguished. For over a year after I publicly accepted your death, I still investigated on my own. But I couldn't find anything. No trace. No whisper. Nothing."

I sigh, then slip my weapon into the holster in the back of my pants.

"I tried to retreat, but Simon and the others wouldn't let me."

"They were always good friends," I say finally, wishing for the first time in a long time that my voice didn't sound so hideous.

"Yes, they are."

We remain silent for nearly a minute, neither of us moving.

"So the conspiracy theory that you were always worried about..."

I nod, knowing he has no problem seeing me.

"And I was..."

"Too old, too dangerous, too valuable as a hostage against me," I finish for him.

"And now, they're gone?"

"Yes. At least the ones with power."

"How?"

"Me," I say simply.

"You know the rumor around the station used to be that I was a hard ass, but everyone knew better than to piss you off."

I smile with him, sharing the memory. The rumor had begun shortly after Kincaid had taken over the building. I had, of course, helped the gossip along a bit...like I needed cops harassing the long-haired hippie. I wanted them wary of me until they got to know me.

"Where are you going?"

I shrug because I honestly don't know.

"Why did you come back?" he asks softly.

I take a deep breath and release it slowly. "Closure," I finally say into the silence, hoping he'll understand.

He drops his chin to his chest and releases a deep breath of his own before he raises his anguished face toward mine. "You didn't know?"

A small part of me wants to see him roast on a spit, to make him spell out what he thinks I didn't know, to make him feel a bit of what I felt when I learned the truth, but I can't do it. Blair loved him too much to cause him that sort of pain. "I didn't know."

"Christ," he whispers, his voice full of distress. "I would have come for you if I had..."

"Believed," I offer when he hesitates.

A low moan escapes his throat and he falls hard to his knees before me. "Yes."

As if by its own volition, my right hand reaches out and brushes tenderly over Jim's scalp. His hair is a bit longer than when I lived with him, but it looks good on him. He pushes his head slightly into my hand. "Please don't leave," he says quietly, not begging, yet not demanding either.

I drop my hand and take a step back.

He flows to his feet in one swift movement. "You have no reason to leave."

"No reason to stay either," I counter.

He flinches slightly and I know the words have hit their intended target -- his heart. He reaches forward, but I knock his hand away.

An almost feral grin graces his face.

"So, you can just walk away?" he demands, even as he starts to circle me.

"Third life's a charm," I counter, keeping an equal distance away from him as I turn to keep him in my sight.

He lunges toward me, but even in the dim light of the street lamps I can see the feint. I counter it and in that instant we're engaged. Five years ago, I would never have believed myself capable of this sort of hand-to-hand combat. It's obvious by his facial expressions, the ones I can see that is, that Jim would never have believed it either. He steps up his efforts a tad, hoping to gain an advantage over me, but I increase my efforts as well. I see the understanding dawn in his eyes that he might be in over his head. While Jim was always incredible in close-quarters combat, life in the police department has soften his edges, at least as far as an operative is concerned.

I return his earlier feral grin to confirm his suspicions.

Then realizing I really can't be caught here fighting with a police officer, I decide to end the game. My roundhouse kick sweeps him off his feet. Before he can gain any sense of composure, I'm behind him. I use his slightly longer hair to pull his head back.

It's my intention to explain to him, in very small words, what will happen to him if he attempts to follow me, but instead as my eyes lock on his I find myself desperate to taste him once.

I bend down, intent on giving him a hard, brutal kiss, but as our lips touch, he surrenders, tempering my hardness with tenderness. He opens his mouth, allowing me to slip my tongue into his sweet moistness.

I bring my other hand up and grip his head, delving deeper as if trying to plumb the depths of his soul.

He moans softly, his thumbs lightly dancing between my legs as his hands rub up and down my thighs. I devour his mouth, my teeth biting his lips and chin. His thumbs stop at the juncture of my legs, teasing me until my entire body trembles with want and need.

I push him away, hard; taking several huge steps back after I do. "This isn't who you are," I shout angrily.

"It's who I've always been...for you," he counters in a gentle voice.

I shake my head in denial, then turn and jog toward my vehicle. I can't...I won't...

My body is slammed against the trunk of my car. Jim's frame covers mine as he holds my hands spread-eagle against the cold metal. His pelvis grinds suggestively against my rear.

"We danced around the truth for so long that we convinced ourselves it was just our imagination," he murmurs against my neck, then inhales my scent.

I struggle to free myself, but he has leverage on me. I can probably do serious damage to him, but yet find myself reluctant to do so.

"I've always wondered what would've happened if I had taken the plunge when you asked me to join you in the water. Would it have made our bond stronger? Would I have felt you with every atom of my being?"

He grabs my shoulders and flips me over onto my back, stepping in between my legs as he does so, so I can't get my legs between us to push him away. I try to sit up but he slams me back against the truck lid, his hips undulating between my legs causing a friction so erotic I find myself arching upward, my body demanding his touch.

"He's still in there, Mallory. I can feel him. They haven't destroyed him completely."

I still suddenly. We're on very dangerous ground here. "Sandburg's dead," I say decisively. "As dead as he was in that fountain."

Jim smiles at me like a cat playing with a mouse. "Ah, but I brought him back from the fountain."

I struggle with every ounce of strength I possess. This is bad, this is very bad, I hear a voice whisper within me.

But the more I fight, the firmer Jim's grip seems to be on me, until I am sitting up, squashed to his chest. Jim bites my ear lobe. "Come on in, the water's fine."

I gasp as I find myself racing toward the edge of a cliff, all four legs stretching and pounding, pushing as hard as I can, knowing that I have to reach him before it's too late. I hear a roar of defiance as a black cat streaks toward me, his muscles bunching and flexing as we close the distance between us. As if by some unspoken command, we both leap toward the other through a cascade of water separating us, but instead of colliding we flow into each other. I can feel Jim's joyful laughter ripple through me, can smell his love, taste the essence of him. Light explodes around us and I am warmed to my very core. There is no more solitude. No more me or him. There is only us.

I feel an unwieldy weight on my chest as consciousness slowly returns. Stars shine above me while the chill of the metal seeps steadily through my clothes. I lick my dry lips and take a deep slow breath.

Jim hums contentedly deep within his chest. I can feel his music reverberate over my skin.

"You couldn't have stopped what happened by taking the plunge back then," I say quietly, surprised at the softer tone of my voice. Still craggy, I sound like I just woke versus trying to speak with a shattered voice.

He sighs deeply against my chest. "I know," the words are spoken as though they are causing him great pain.

"I can't go back," I tell him honestly, knowing that the graduate student is gone for ever.

Jim braces his arms on either side of my chest and pushes himself up until he is straight-armed over me. "I know."

"So...what?" I ask, shrugging my shoulders.

"You could always become a cop."

I laugh until my whole body shakes beneath him.

"I've always wanted to be the good cop in the good cop/bad cop scenario," he says earnestly just as I start to calm down, which only sets me off again.

When my laughter quells, I look up into his eyes, my heart in my throat as I see the love there. "I don't know if I can be a cop," I say, because I don't... know that is.

"Whatever we do, we'll do it together. Promise me," he demands, his fingers gripping my forearms as if he's afraid that if he lets me go, I'll slip away into the night.

I search his face, looking for any signs of doubt, but there is none. "Okay," I whisper finally.

The word is barely out of my mouth before he grabs and pulls me tight to his chest, our love finding every little hole and crevice and filling it, cementing us tight.

I lift my hands and return the hug, gripping the back of his shirt. I then pull back gently, so that he knows I'm not pulling away. I place a hand reverently over his forehead, then tenderly over his heart in benediction. Our path is not going to be an easy one. There will be major obstacles in our way, baggage to be dealt with and lives to reconnect with, but I know one thing with every cell of my being -- in water I died, in water I am resurrected, with Jim I am whole.


	2. Counterpoint

I still remember the day he walked back into my life. No, scratch that. He didn't come back; I had to go out and catch him. No, that isn't quite right either. It makes it sound like I forced him and if there is one thing I've learned since his reappearance is that I can't force him to do anything he doesn't ultimately want to do. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I should start at the beginning.

I don't recall what day of the week it was, I just know that I looked up during a late lunch with Megan and spotted a man lounging against the brick building across the street from the restaurant we were eating at, smiling at what appeared to be me. As the figure turned away, something niggled at the back of my brain, a recognition of sorts. The further away the stranger moved, the more intense an ache within me grew. Without conscious thought, I stood, mumbled something to Megan and left the restaurant, intent on tracking my prey.

He wasn't hard to follow, as he wasn't trying to hide. He flowed through the downtown streets with an economy of movement, not drawing attention to himself nor appearing to be skulking through the crowd -- just an average Joe on the street. However, there was nothing average about the man. I guessed at the time that he was an operative of some sorts. An anger slowly built within me as I tried to figure out what he wanted with me, and wondered if he was leading me into a trap.

I decided to take the bull by the horns and confront him before he got to wherever he was going.

I muttered something inane like 'excuse me' to gain his attention. When he turned, a slight look of astonishment on his face, my breath caught in my throat. While I didn't recognize the stranger's face, I recognized the eyes. Those dark blue orbs had haunted my dreams for years. Blair. But yet again, not. It didn't make any sense.

"I'm sorry, I just thought you looked like..." I had started, confused. Blair was dead, had been dead for five years, shortly after the Ventriss matter. But the eyes....

The stranger shrugged at me as if to say no harm, no foul and turned to go about his business.

I recovered quickly, desperate now to reconcile my memory of Sandburg with those eyes. I knew if I could just hear the stranger's voice, if he'd talk to me, I could regain my equilibrium. "I'm sorry. I'm not harassing you, really," I explained as I reached out and touched his shoulder again, although in reality, that's exactly what I was doing. "It's just...that is...I'm sorry, Mr...?"

Several emotions passed ever-so-briefly through his eyes: amusement, fear, pride.

"Mallory," he responded in a harsh, broken voice. His voice grated on my ears and I quickly lower my hearing.

"Mr. Mallory," I repeated, acknowledging that he had responded to my request.

He smiled at me in a dismissive manner, then turned away, but I caught something in his eyes as he did -- smugness. I could tell that he believed he had successfully deflected my curiosity. For some reason, that conceit grated on me.

"Mr. Mallory," I called after him.

He made a big production about turning back to face me and suddenly I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was on the right track. Something was up and I was determined to find out just what it was. "Mr. Mallory, what are you doing here in Cascade?" I asked, trying for nonchalance, but when he raised an eyebrow at me I lost a lot of my indignation. He suddenly looked very much like a man who just wanted to be on his way but was too polite to tell this persistent stranger to shove it.

"Why?" he croaked in a mildly confrontational tone, resting his hands on his hips in an expectant manner.

I remember stuttering, "I'm...um...a detective with the Cascade Police Department."

He settled the full weight of his gaze on me and I realized that if he were just an average man on the street that I was probably going to make the evening news for harassment. Simon would have loved that. However, Mallory's gaze shifted a tad and a look of distress flashed briefly in those almost dead eyes.

"What's going on, Jim?" Megan asked so softly that Mallory shouldn't have been able to hear her, and yet I watched the stranger in front of me take notice of her, as if reading her lips, or understanding that she was talking to me at a level no one else could hear.

"I was just asking Mr. Mallory what business he has in Cascade," I explained, although my eyes never left his as I tried my damnedest to drill down into his psyche and learn his secrets.

Mallory smiled a cold hard smile. "Passing through." Succinct and to the point. His smile was almost feral when he noticed Megan flinch at the broken glass that was his voice.

"So why were you watching us at the restaurant?" I demanded.

Megan gasped quietly, not seeing what I obviously saw, seeing only my badgering of an innocent bystander. "Jim," she said in quiet admonishment.

Mallory quirked a curious eyebrow at me. "What restaurant?"

The question threw me for a loop and it took me a moment to respond. "Toreros," I said finally.

He smiled sadly at me and nodded his head as if lost in memory. "My wife and I used to eat there when we were in town."

Abruptly, all my certainty left me. He hadn't been looking at me at all. He had been lost in the memory of his wife. I felt like six different types of fool. But in all the years since Blair's death, I had never mistaken someone else for him. Sure, he had haunted my memories, my dreams, my nightmares, but I had never seen him in another's eyes.

Why was I thinking about Blair now? Now when the pain was almost gone? Now, when I could look back on our time together and remember the good times and not be shredded by what could have beens. I focused on listening to Mallory's heart, but it beat like everyone else's, no indications that he was nervous or lying.

Megan gently took my elbow. "I'm sorry we intruded," she apologized to the stranger.

Mallory shrugged again as if he had somehow missed out on the joke. "No problem," he said graciously.

Megan tugged on my arm, but not before I saw the disappointment in Mallory's eyes as he turned.

"Jim, have you lost you mind?" Megan hissed when I tried to follow the enigma. "What's wrong with you?"

"I wish I knew," I conceded, never taking my eyes off the retreating figure. "Look," I tried to explain as I hastily disengaged myself from her grip, "I can't explain right now, but I need to follow that man."

"You're going to end up being charged with harassment."

"No, I won't. I'm not going to confront him. I just need to follow him for a bit."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

Even though I was touched by her offer, I shook my head. "No, I'll call if I need backup. Just let Simon know I won't be in this afternoon." I tried to hand her my keys, but she refused to take them.

"I'll call a cab. No worries."

I nodded, dismissing her from my mind, and jogged after the mystery man, who continued to stroll leisurely down the city streets for several blocks before he turned into one of the downtown hotels; not one of the best, but not a flea trap either.

Standing across the street in the mouth of an alley, I tracked the man's heartbeat as he climbed the stairs, foregoing the elevator. He reached the sixth floor and wasn't even breathing hard. A fit man, no doubt.

I stepped back into the alley as I heard him open one of the doors facing the street. As I suspected, Mallory immediately moved to the window and scanned the view beneath him, even inspecting the alley I was occupying. His eyes didn't miss much as he studied the street. He stood at the window for several minutes as if he couldn't shake the feeling that everything was not quite right. He didn't appear to be in any hurry to step away from the window and I found my respect for his abilities growing.

When he finally stepped away, I could hear him gathering items from around the room. Packing, no doubt. I frowned, not sure why the thought of this man leaving left me feeling slightly bereft.

Once he was packed, he laid down on the bed. I could tell by his breathing that he was falling asleep -- no doubt planning on leaving town in the evening, under the cover of darkness.

He probably had a car nearby, although when I looked at the vehicles lining the street, I realized that none of them would qualify as a classic. But then again, a classic would be a give away. First rule of covert ops, hide in plain view.

While I was confident that he would sleep for a bit, I worried about the possibility of his waking and leaving if I went back for my wheels. But if I waited until he woke up, I would have no way to track him. I debated with myself for several minutes before I jogged back to the restaurant and got my SUV. A vehicle, I reflected, that Blair wouldn't know I had as my classic Ford pickup had died a valiant death in a high-speed shoot-out two years previously.

My heart beat heavily in my chest when I returned to the alley and pulled the keys from the ignition, but calmed immediately when I heard Mallory's steady breathing. I tried to remember what Blair's heartbeat sounded like as I waited during the waning afternoon, but no matter how precious it had been to me in the past, I found I couldn't conclude with any accuracy that Mallory and Sandburg were one in the same.

I remember sitting in the SUV wondering if I'd lost my mind. Why was I doing this to myself? I had seen the dental records, had them compared to the ones in our safety deposit box -- a precaution Sandburg had insisted on after Bracket had so thoroughly disrupted our lives. He had been convinced that the ex-agent would talk to someone about my abilities, would use my gifts as a 'Get Out of Jail Free' card. I had humored him when he had suggested it, a part of me not as convinced by my nonchalance as I had pretended.

The film had been the final nail in my coffin of disbelief. Even after I conceded publicly that the burned-beyond-recognition body found at the bottom of a cliff had to have been Blair's, I continued to search for him; a part of me wondering if he had been taken. I even paid all my debts and tied up my affairs, expecting the same people to come for me. But it never happened.

On what would have been his thirtieth birthday, nearly a year later, I conceded that he was gone. I had gone into his room, trying to find his scent, when it finally dawned on me that I was never going to see him again. I systematically destroyed the larger pieces of furniture in his room, although I was careful not to smash the various knickknacks that Naomi had left behind.

She had only taken the photo album of his childhood, his degree certificates, a couple of the artifacts he had gathered in his world travels, and left the rest to me.

Naomi had been my rock after Sandburg's death. She came for his memorial service and stayed for three months. She cooked, she cleaned, and she poked and prodded me until I exploded with my grief. She reminded me that Blair wouldn't have wanted me to withdraw, that he would have wanted me to live each day to the fullest, and that he would have expected me to continue to protect my tribe.

She worried though about my senses.

Apparently, she had found Blair's journals and had read them as a way to process her own grief. It was only after I had assured her that Connor and Simon knew about my abilities that she felt comfortable enough leaving me to my own devices.

I almost made love to her the night she left, so desperate to have one last connection with the other half of my soul. But as she melted against my body, surrendering to my passion, I heard Blair's affectionate, embarrassed, aggrieved voice laughing in my ear. "Jim, that's my mom, man."

Naomi had smiled her understanding as I set her on her feet. I think both of us were a little embarrassed to discover that we were each seeking the same thing from the other, and yet both knew that while Blair would have understood our desperate need for connection, he wouldn't have been happy about our actually doing the deed.

She makes it a point to call me every month. In fact, she usually stops by at least once a year to reconnect. We get together for dinner, drink wine and tell our favorite Blair stories. She tells me about his travels while studying and I have finally opened up and told her about some of our cases. Her pride in her son is an awesome thing to witness.

"Jason!" a voice shouted from the room above.

I started, my heart in my throat, my fingers whitening around the steering wheel. I heard Mallory gasp and lurch out of bed, heard the quiet "shit" as he realized he had awakened from a nightmare, and could hear flesh rubbing against flesh and realized that he was scrubbing the sleep from his face.

I tracked his movements as he stumbled from bed into the bathroom and splashed cold water over his face. He took several deep breaths to calm his racing heart, then stripped out of his clothes and took a shower.

Twenty minutes later, he had turned in his room key, paid his bill and had thrown his duffel bag in the back of an old beater.

After he had driven a few blocks down the road, I pulled the SUV into the street, never turning on my lights. I expected that he would get on the highway and head out of town, so I was surprised when he instead wound his way through the side streets.

My heart beat in painful anticipation the closer we drove to Rainier. I frowned when I became aware of a noise in the vehicle, before I realized it was me. Even today, I wouldn't be able to identify the sound, other than to say it was as if my body could no longer keep the prayer it had been whispering all evening silent a moment longer.

Mallory parked his vehicle in Sandburg's old spot, not a difficult thing to do considering it was two in the morning in June. Mallory sat in the car for several minutes before he finally got out and moved unerringly toward the fountain -- as I knew he would.

I parked my vehicle at the back of the parking lot and followed at a discreet distance. He stopped when he reached the fountain and released a long deep sigh, sounding as if it had emanated from his toes.

"All of my rescues are gone," he whispered into the summer night.

I couldn't even begin to imagine what he was thinking about. I only knew that I couldn't let him face it alone.

I moved closer, silently cursing myself when I kicked a pebble, causing it to skitter along the sidewalk behind him. Mallory turned so fast that I didn't even see him move. He pointed an automatic straight at my heart and I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was more than capable of pulling the trigger.

We stood for nearly a full minute, neither one of us so much as twitching.

"Do you have a permit for that, Mr. Mallory?" I asked nonchalantly, thankful that I was the sentinel in the group and he couldn't hear my heart thundering in my chest.

A smile teased his lips, but he didn't lower his weapon.

I decided it was time to put up or shut up and took a step closer to him, hoping he wouldn't see it as a threatening gesture, but hoping that I might be able to get near enough to disarm him so that we could have a proper discussion. Without blinking, he flicked the safety off with his thumb. I swallowed hard, but stopped, understanding his silent promise.

His face was granite, revealing nothing. I began to feel a bit of doubt creep into my consciousness, but I ruthlessly shoved it down. "I didn't believe it for the longest time," I said wanting him to know that I hadn't given up hope right away, that I had held on as long as possible.

He remained silent, although I heard the softest sigh escape him when he realized I wasn't going to leave.

"It was only when the dental records were compared to the set in our secret safety deposit box that I finally conceded you were gone. I kept telling myself if you were dead, I would feel it, somewhere down deep within myself. And I never felt that. Simon didn't understand. Hell, no one did. How could I explain the merging? How could I tell them that you were my light and I would know on a cellular level when it was extinguished. For over a year after I publicly accepted your death, I still investigated on my own. But I couldn't find anything. No trace. No whisper. Nothing."

I was beginning to feel vaguely foolish, standing in the middle of a deserted campus, babbling at a man I prayed was my dead partner. Mallory sighed again, and holstered his weapon.

I took his disarmament as a sign of encouragement. "I tried to retreat, but Simon and the others wouldn't let me."

"They were always good friends," he said after a moment of silence.

I don't think anything has ever sounded as sweet as the concession in those whispered words, validation that I wasn't going insane.

I swallowed hard, but managed to get out. "Yes, they are." I waited for him to say more, but he remained stubbornly silent in the face of all my unasked questions.

"So the conspiracy theory that you were always worried about..." I speculated aloud, but stopped when he simply nodded, understanding dawning with sickening clarity. He hadn't left me willingly. He had been ripped away, taken against his will. But why didn't they take me? Why would they leave the sentinel behind and take the guide? "And I was..."

"Too old, too dangerous, too valuable as a hostage against me."

An icy fist gripped tightly around my heart. Oh my God, they had used my freedom as a means to keep him in line. He acquiesced to their demands to keep me safe. An anger grew within my chest, a fury at the faceless bureaucrats who had torn our lives to shreds, but a realization also dawned that he wouldn't be standing in front of me if they still existed. "And now, they're gone?"

"Yes," he said simply, then added after a moment's hesitation. "At least the ones with power."

"How?"

He shrugged like it was no big deal. "Me."

A lump grew in my throat as I began to wonder how he had managed to gain his freedom. I didn't know what to say, but wanted to acknowledge his accomplishment somehow. "You know the rumor around the station used to be that I was a hard ass, but everyone knew better than to piss you off."

He smiled at me and I have never seen anything in the last five years as sweet. After a moment, his eyes told me that his thoughts were wandering a bit. I wanted to bring him back to reality, back to me, so I asked, "Where are you going?"

He shrugged, which made me frown.

"Why did you come back?" I asked, needing to know.

He took a deep breath and released it slowly. I didn't think he was going to answer, but then he finally said, "Closure."

Realization slammed into me like a ton of bricks and I dropped my chin to my chest, unable to meet his eyes. I gasp quietly for breath, suddenly unable to get enough oxygen in my lungs. "You didn't know?" I asked in horror as I realized that he didn't know we all thought he was dead. They hadn't told him. They had let him believe that we had given up on him, that I had given up on him.

"I didn't know," he said simply.

"Christ," I whispered, feeling as if someone was filleting my heart with a dull knife. I had to tell him, he had to know. "I would have come for you if I had..."

"Believed," he said when I hesitated.

I remember falling to my knees as all my nightmares reached up and choked me. All my fears that he had been taken and was being tortured confirmed. I had lived my life, never realizing he was in hell.

Just when I thought my chest would burst in agony, I felt his hand run tenderly over my head, toying with my hair. I had dreamed of his touch for so long that I couldn't help but lean into his hand. His movements hesitated and I realized he was getting nervous. "Please don't leave."

It was obviously the wrong thing to say. He immediately dropped his hand and took a step away from me. Terrified, that he was going to run, I gained my feet. "You have no reason to leave."

"No reason to stay either," he countered.

God that hurt. But then I remembered who I was when I came back from Peru. I was so full of rage at the time, wanting to hurt anyone who even looked in my direction. I reached out for him, knowing what he was going through, but he knocked my hand away.

Pain is nebulous. It's hard to reach out to someone in agony because there is absolutely nothing anyone can say to make the pain go away. But anger, anger I could deal with.

"So, you can just walk away?" I demanded as I started to circle him, taunting him, letting him know that he had met his match, that he wasn't frightening me with his anger.

"Third life's a charm," he countered, keeping me in his sights at all time, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet to stay mobile.

I figured I'd take him down quick. I don't think I thought much past that point. All I knew was that I had to get him to concede to a higher power so that he'd come home with me. I feinted to the left, but he anticipated the move and suddenly we were in frenzied hand-to-hand combat, each jabbing and blocking like some kung fu movie. I admit now that it never dawned on me that he might actually be good at self-defense. That's not to say that Blair couldn't take care of himself, but he never had the moves. It always seemed like the bad guy du jour somehow managed to get him in a headlock, so I was a bit surprised when he held his own against me.

I didn't want to pull out my covert ops tricks, but if I was going to end this quickly, I knew I was going to have to do it. Imagine my surprise when he smiled ferally at me and countered each move with his own. It slowly dawned on me that he was playing with me; that he could end our confrontation at any time. Just as I had that thought, he swept my legs out from under me, causing me to drop to my knees.

I scrambled to get to my feet, but he used my hair to pull my head back, forcing my spine to arch backward. His eyes blazed with anger and he growled quietly in his throat as if preparing to say something. But instead of speaking, he bent down and gave me a brutal kiss.

I never hesitated; I simply opened my mouth, and gave him everything I had in that kiss. He loosened the grip in my hair and brought both hands up to frame my face while he deepened the kiss.

I moaned, wanting more. My hands gripped his legs for support, but once I had it I ran my hands up and down the inside of his thighs. Growing bolder, I brushed his scrotum through his jeans, feeling him tremble as the passion boiled up within him.

But instead of giving into the passion, he pushed me away, hard, and took several steps back. "This isn't who you are," he shouted angrily.

If only he knew. "It's who I've always been...for you," I countered.

He shook his head in denial, then turned and jogged toward his vehicle. I knew, knew to the very bottom of my soul that if he got in that car, he would be gone forever. I also knew that I would burn in hell before I let that happen. I scrambled to my feet and ran after him, slamming him into his car and pinning him to the trunk, grinding my pelvis against him as he struggled for leverage.

"We danced around the truth for so long that we convinced ourselves it was just our imagination," I told him.

In the evenings, after work, as I unwound from a hard day, I often speculated that we would have eventually become lovers. I knew after Sierra Verde that we were destined to be together. I always found it ironic that after I had purged myself of my anger, he had found his. But I truly believed we would have eventually work through all our problems.

"I've always wondered what would've happened if I had taken the plunge when you asked me to join you in the water. Would it have made our bond stronger? Would I have felt you with every atom of my being?"

He remained silent and I knew that I needed to see his eyes, which have never been able to lie to me. I flipped him onto his back and forced his legs apart to keep him from pushing me away. He tried to sit up, but I slammed him back down before he could gain any sort of leverage. I brutally slammed my hips against him and he arched off the trunk, gasping with pleasure.

Blair had always been a hedonist, something I doubted seriously that Mallory was. His reaction told me everything I needed to know.

"He's still in there, Mallory. I can feel him. They haven't destroyed him completely," I taunted, slamming into him again.

Mallory stilled, laying flat against the trunk, the fight suddenly drained from him. "Sandburg's dead." He released a deep breath. "As dead as he was in that fountain."

"Ah, but I brought him back from the fountain," I reminded him even as I shimmied against him.

Sandburg began to struggle in earnest and it was all I could do to keep my grip on him. Realizing he was going to end up sliding off the trunk if I wasn't careful, I pulled him up and held him tightly to my chest.

I whispered nonsensical words to him, trying to get him to calm down, but he was lost in an internal struggle. Finally, I bit his ear to try to break through his thoughts.

He gasped in shock.

"Come on in, the water's fine."

His acquiescence was as spiritual as it was physical. As we had nearly five and a half years earlier, we morphed into our spirit guides and raced toward each other. There was a desperateness in the way he scrambled toward me and it became the most important thing in my life to reach him. I jumped as soon as he was close enough and sighed as we flowed into each other. I could feel his pain, his loneliness, but most of all I could feel his undying love for me and I swore I would never give him any reason to doubt that I felt the same way.

His heart beat steadily against my ear and I hummed with contentment.

"You couldn't have stopped what happened by taking the plunge back then," he told me quietly.

I sighed deeply against his chest. "I know," I admitted, but wondered if I would've been able to track him or if I would've known beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was still alive.

"I can't go back," he said quietly, breaking through my thoughts.

I pushed myself up until I was straight-armed over him and searched his face. The bouncing grad student was gone, but as I looked into his face I knew Blair still existed. "I know."

"So...what?" he asked, looking up at me, expectantly.

"You could always become a cop." Hell, I had.

He smiled, but then the smile grew to a chuckle then to an out and out guffaw. I knew he couldn't see it then, but it was actually a good line of work for him to go into. However, that aside, I was desperate to hear him laugh again. So I said in a fairly earnest voice, "I've always wanted to be the good cop in the good cop/bad cop scenario."

He literally curled around my arm laughing. After several moments, he looked up at me, a tender, but sober, smile on his face. "I don't know if I can be a cop."

Fair enough. "Whatever we do, we'll do it together," I told him. Then gripping his forearm, I demanded, "Promise me." For I wanted his word that he would never leave me again.

He searched my face for several moments. I don't know what he could have seen in the faint light, but whatever he was searching for, he seemed to find it. "Okay," he finally whispered.

I don't remember pulling him to my chest. I only remember pouring all the love I had for him into that slim body. He returned the hug with equal ferocity. After several moments, he pulled back, but before I could protest he put one hand over my forehead and the other over my heart.

"It's not going to be easy," he promised after several moments of silence.

"Easy is for wimps," I countered, which made him chuckle.

He melted against my chest and I was content to just hold him. I don't know how long we stood there, but I would probably still be standing there if he hadn't asked, "So, now what?"

"So, now we go home."

He blinked almost convulsively, trying to rein in long forgotten emotions. "Okay." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'll follow you home."

"No," I told him as I stepped back and pulled him off the trunk. "You're coming home with me, now."

A slight smile twitched at his lips. "But my stuff."

I walked around his car, pulled his duffel bag from the back seat, grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the SUV. I knew life wasn't going to be perfect or even smooth anytime in the near future, but there wasn't any way in hell I was ever going to let him out of my sight again either. If he thought I used to be overprotective when he was just Blair Sandburg, he was in for one hell of a surprise.


	3. Adjustments

The euphoria of having the dream which kept me sane during my years of darkness come true begins to fade the closer we get to Jim's loft.

What am I thinking?

To be Blair again is to be weak and defenseless; it is to be at the mercy of higher powers who care only for their own personal glory and wealth. Marcus Mallory is too ingrained into my psyche now, too much of who I am, and Marcus is too much of a survivor to allow Blair free rein.

"Stop thinking," Jim says from beside me.

I blink once as his voice cuts through my thoughts and turn my head slightly to let him know he has my attention.

"We aren't making any decisions tonight," he says firmly. His blessed protector tone warms a part of my soul, even while it angers me -- as if he could actually stop me if I made the decision to leave.

"We aren't," he says again, although this time there is a tinge of desperation in his voice.

For some reason, his fear comforts me. "Sure."

His hand tentatively reaches for me, but then moves back to the steering wheel, gripping it so tight I can see his knuckles shake a bit.

It's odd to see him so hesitant, to know that I'm what's making him uncertain. Once, a millennia ago, he shouted at me that he knew who he was. I wonder if he can still muster up that same righteous indignation. Have I done this to him?

His turning off the ignition draws me out of my thoughts and I kick myself for my inattention. This sort of laziness is just the thing that got Hankins killed. I release a slow breath, focusing once again on the here and now.

Jim doesn't wait, he practically bursts out of the truck, yanking my duffel bag out of the back seat as he does, as if by holding onto it I have no choice but to follow him.

I follow at a slower pace, taking in my surroundings. The neighborhood hasn't changed much. I shut the door to the vehicle and look back at Jim, who is standing at the rear of the SUV, staring at me as if he still doesn't believe his eyes.

"You're going to make me self-conscious," I tell him, resisting the urge to laugh when he shakes himself out of his mini-zone.

"I just can't...that is...want to go upstairs?"

I've never seen Jim this flustered before. Shocked. Disappointed. Happy. Speechless. But never flustered.

"Sure, since I'm here and everything."

He nods once and moves quickly toward the door leading to the mini-lobby of the building. I follow at a much slower pace. If there's a God in heaven, the elevator will be broken, thus giving me enough time to get used to the idea of going home.

But, of course, it's not. I chuckle silently to myself as I enter the tiny lift, knowing that God had long since turned his back on me. Why did I expect him to suddenly start listening now?

Jim remains silent as the elevator begins its ascent, his eyes never leave my face. I keep my expression as neutral as I can, desperately struggling to control my heartbeat and breathing, even though my soul is singing so loud I suspect Jim can hear it.

He darts off the elevator as soon as the doors open and moves straight for the loft door, fumbling slightly with his keys. I take a step off the lift, but stand rooted in place, debating the pros and cons of going back down. As soon as Jim opens the door, he turns and looks back, expectantly, almost challengingly. Never taking his eyes off me, he deliberately throws my duffel bag into the loft.

"You can do this," he whispers.

It seems like such a simple thing, to walk down the short hallway and into the loft. I've literally walked this exact path a thousand times before. So why should this morning be any different?

Because I want it so badly.

Because everything I've ever wanted in the past five years has either been taken away from me or denied me.

Can it be as easy as walking down the hall and turning left into the apartment?

"Do you want a beer?" Jim asks, quietly, trying for casual but failing miserably.

I shake my head. Alcohol dulls the senses, slows reaction times, makes one an easier target.

"Tea, then? I think I have some green tea."

I shrug my shoulders. "Sure."

I watch him swallow hard, debating whether or not to come back for me. He takes a deep breath and slowly releases it. "Okay." He nods, then moves into the loft.

It's killing him to give me this time to adjust. But despite his fear that I'll simply vanish into the night, he's giving me some space, letting me know he trusts me.

I silently move down the hall, stop in the doorway, and look inside the apartment that has haunted my dreams for years.

Jesus. It's exactly as I remember it; literally, nothing has changed.

I blink. God, could this be another dream?

"Honey?"

I turn and stare incredulously at Jim.

"For the tea," he clarifies, although he has a huge smirk on his face.

"Sure."

Jim's grin gets goofier and he snickers under his breath as he turns back to the stove. There's something about seeing him laugh that draws me into the loft. I shut the door and he spins toward me. A look of panic crosses his face, but it quickly morphs into satisfaction when he sees that I'm inside the loft as opposed to making my escape.

"It'll..." He points nervously back toward the stove. "It'll just take a moment or two longer."

I nod, keeping my hands flat against the door behind me. He turns back toward the kettle and I take a moment to inhale deeply.

Home.

My throat tightens and I try unsuccessfully to swallow.

It's not real. This can't be real.

"Yes, it is," Jim says quietly, appearing like a hallucination before me, making me wonder if I spoke aloud.

His hands move toward me, hesitate, then drop to his sides. "Want to come in and take a load off?" I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to the punch. "Sure."

I feel a smile blossom across my face. "Already, I'm predictable?"

He returns my smile. "Hardly."

He moves back a bit, stepping out of my personal space. Although it's my intention to go into the living room, my feet take a step toward him. He smiles reassuringly at me and takes another step back. I follow him until I reach the kitchen island. My hands grasp the edge of the counter, then splay lightly over the wooden top. Jim acts casual, as if he's not watching my every movement like a hawk, which I appreciate. I know I'm acting like a freak, but don't need to be visually reminded of my neurosis.

My gaze drifts toward my old room.

"Go ahead," he whispers encouragingly.

I look up at him, and he nods me toward the closed French doors.

I shake my head, not ready to take that step yet.

Jim ignores my refusal and moves around the opposite end of the island, opens the glass doors, and flicks on the light switch.

As if by their own volition, my feet move to stand in yet another doorway. My eyes are immediately drawn to my masks and artifacts. My chair and bookcases are different, but virtually everything else is the same.

"I...how...why..." I close my eyes, flustered.

"Naomi likes sleeping in here when she comes to visit," he explains.

My eyes fly open.

"She stayed with me after...you know. She and Simon were my strength."

I blinked at him. My mother? Jim and my mother?

"We didn't..." he starts, then blushes to his roots. "We couldn't," he hastens to explain in the wake of my silence.

"Chair's different," I say, letting him off the hook.

For some reason, he blushes again. "Yes." But he doesn't give an explanation.

I step into the room and open a desk drawer, only to find it exactly as I had left it, filled with notes, journals and photographs. I look back at Jim and he smiles gently at me. "I've read everything, three or four times. It helps when things get bad."

"You kept everything," I say softly, stating the obvious, but I'm shocked to realize he had.

"Naomi has your graduation certificates and your baby album; but yes, essentially everything else is here. I, uh, I have most of your university stuff in the basement."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you keep everything?"

"How could I not?"

I know I'm looking at him incredulously again, but I can't help myself.

"I couldn't let you go." He closes the distance between us, forcing me to roll my head back on my shoulders to look up into his face. "I tried. God, I tried, but I couldn't." His hands ghost over my face, but never quite touch it. He leans forward, but the tea kettle starts screaming in the kitchen. Our eyes lock, then he sighs and steps back to remove the pot from the stove.

I close my eyes, my chest heaving in short pants. I know Jim can hear me, but I can't help myself.

He hadn't forgotten me.

I raise a hand and gently lay it on my bottom lip to stop its trembling. The last thing I need is an emotional scene.

But my heart is singing.

He hadn't forgotten me.

I did matter.

I take a deep breath, release it slowly, and turn back toward the kitchen. Jim is pouring the boiling water into two mugs.

I slide into one of the kitchen chairs. Jim sets one of the steaming mugs in front of me and sits across the table. For lack of anything better to do, I pick up the string dangling over the lip of the cup and dunk the bag several times.

"Is anyone looking for you?" he asks, breaking the silence.

I shake my head. "No one of power."

"Anyone without power?"

I look up and smile at him. My Jim, always the detective.

"Possibly a few students." I raise a hand and cut off his next question. "They won't be a danger. If they get this far, they'll simply be looking for direction."

"Which you'll provide them?"

I drop my hand and cup it around the mug, reveling in the warmth. "I don't know," I say honestly.

I take a small sip of tea, keeping my eyes on Jim.

"Who do you want to tell first?" he asks softly.

"About?"

"About your being back."

I blink several times, trying to set my mug down without sloshing its hot contents over my hands. "No one." I don't like the alarm in my voice, but I can't believe he would ask such a question.

"They have a right to know."

"A right?" I challenge.

"Everyone thinks you're dead. They need to know you're alive."

"Why?"

"What? What do you mean why?"

"I'm not who I used to be."

"So?"

"Don't be dense, Ellison," I say reprovingly. "Blair Sandburg is dead. He's been buried and mourned. Don't tease people into thinking he's alive, then give them me."

"Blair--"

I raise my hand, cutting him off.

"But Naomi --"

"NO!" I shout, pushing away from the table in horror.

Jim raises both of his hands, trying to show he means me no harm. "Okay," he says softly, "Okay, we won't say anything to Naomi."

"She won't...can't...accept...," I stutter, touching the scars on my face and neck. "It'll be too much." I know my mother. She'll blame herself. The pain will overwhelm her if she were to see me now. Her free-spirited heart wouldn't be able to accept what I've been through, what's been done to me.

"She'll understand," he counters.

I spin and head unerringly toward my duffel bag. This was a mistake. I knew from the start it was. I should never have come back to Cascade.

I hear Jim move behind me and I sidestep, at the last moment, out of his path. However, he moves with an agility that surprises me, sweeping a leg out and knocking me off my feet. I go down hard, but never stop moving, making Jim miss when he drops, trying to pin me. I scramble to my knees, but he finds purchase on my ankle and yanks hard, causing me to slam onto the floor. I roll immediately, raising my knee as he tries to get a better grip. He grunts in pain, but uses his forward momentum to pin me momentarily.

"ENOUGH!" he shouts, even as he straddles my body and pushes my hands to the floor.

However, he's too far forward and I'm able to use my legs to dislodge him. Both of us roll to a crouch, our fingertips on the floor balancing our weight, our chests heaving with exertion.

"Bl-" he starts, but stops when I snarl at him. "Mallory. I just meant if you gave her a chance. I'm not going to force anything. I swear." He takes a deep shaky breath and stands upright, purposefully making himself vulnerable. "On my heart. Which is beating in your chest, by the way." Again, he raises his hands in supplication.

I slowly, slowly stand. My gaze never leaving his face.

"You have no real reason to believe me, but I wish you would," he says quietly.

I run a trembling hand over my buzz cut. "Sure," I say after a moment's silence.

He smiles brilliantly at me, then chuckles hoarsely, which makes me grin for some odd reason. Seeing my reaction only makes him laugh, then guffaw. Before I realize it, we are both howling with laughter, each using the other as support so we don't collapse onto the floor.

But somewhere in the middle, my laughter turns to tearless sobs.

I don't think I can do this.

"Yes, you can," Jim whispers in my ear as he wraps his strong arms around me and hugs me tightly to his chest. "You're not alone anymore, Mallory. And together, we can accomplish anything...including working on our communication skills."

My body attempts a laugh, but it ends up a hiccup which makes us both snort in amusement. I try not to notice that my hands are clenched in the back of Jim's shirt or that I'm holding him as hard as he's holding me.

I can't move, afraid that this will all disappear if I let him go. Jim seems content just to hold me. Every time I shake my head, he makes shushing noises and pets my hair. The combination of his body's heat and the comfort he is giving makes me sleepy. I'm vaguely aware of grunting, of my feet not being on the floor any longer, but I can't find the energy to care. If this is a dream, I don't want to wake up. If I have to wake up by myself tomorrow, I need the memory of these arms holding me as if I am the most precious thing in the world.


	4. Beginnings

I awake to a curious, but delicious, warmth on my back. I arch upward until my spine cracks, then relax, my arms stretching outward from my body...only to find the bed empty.

I can't breathe.

God, help me. It was a dream.

My eyes flutter open, but all I can see are the flannel sheets beneath me.

Flannel?

"I'm assuming you still like scrambled eggs?"

I push myself up, straight-armed, and look down into the kitchen. Jim is standing with a skillet in one hand and two eggs in another.

"Well?" he demands in amusement.

"Yes," I say, flinching slightly as the harshness of my voice reverberates around the loft.

"Breakfast's in five." He turns toward the stove, essentially dismissing me.

My arms collapse and I find myself, once again, face-first in the warm sheets.

"I suppose I could serve you breakfast in bed," Jim's voice filters through my thoughts several moments later.

I snort with amusement, but roll over and sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "That isn't necessary," I answer in a normal tone of voice, knowing that Jim probably has his hearing cranked up to listen to me.

I slip into my black jeans but decide that the shirt from yesterday is a little too rank to put back on before my shower. I look over the balcony and spot my duffel bag where Jim threw it last night. Padding barefoot down the stairs, I rummage in my bag until I find a black t-shirt.

When I turn toward the kitchen, it's to find Jim's gaze practically devouring me.

"When do you have to go in?" I ask, after clearing my throat and tossing the shirt on the back of the couch, still not quite sure what to make of this new dynamic in our relationship.

"I don't," he responds, shrugging, then turns and spoons the eggs onto our plates. "I called Simon this morning and asked for a personal day."

I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off. "It's not like I don't have weeks accumulated."

Closing my eyes, I stifle a sigh. "You're going to raise his suspicions."

Jim takes the plates to the table and sets them down. "I've taken personal days before," he says, semi-defensively.

I raise an eyebrow. "Within the last five years?"

His eyes widen slightly before he drops his chin to his chest. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

I shrug. There's nothing to be done about it now, but I know Simon and I have no doubt that he'll be stopping by this evening. I think I better make plans to be out of the loft for a little while after dinner. "Don't worry about it."

I sit behind the closest plate and make a big show of smelling his eggs. Jim's awkwardness disappears as he smiles and takes the seat across from me.

We eat in silence for several minutes, before Jim asks, "So, what are your plans?"

I shovel the last bit of egg into my mouth and contemplate the question. My funds should last me for several years, so I'm not under any real pressure to find a job. As of yesterday afternoon, I hadn't intended to stay in Cascade and therefore don't have any long-term plans.

"I should probably work out."

He grins at me, knowing I haven't answered his question, but realizing that's all he's going to get at the moment. "Do you want to do that here or at the park?" he asks, standing and taking the empty plates to the sink.

The park is too open, too public. "Here's fine."

"Do you need any help moving the furniture?"

I roll my eyes and he chuckles.

Once the furniture is pushed up against the walls, I stand in the middle of the open space and begin my tai-chi routine. In order to strengthen my balance, I do it with my eyes closed, until I become aware of Jim standing close to me.

Opening my eyes, I find him mirroring my movements. Feeling a mischievousness I haven't felt in a lifetime, I speed the routine up a bit, but Jim keeps pace, never missing a beat. When I think he's lost a bit of his concentration in the rhythm of the routine, I shoot a hand out, intent on smacking the side of his head, but he blocks the strike.

A feral grin blossoms slyly over his face. He's been expecting the move, had, in fact, lured me into making it. I feel my own smirk grow.

The next several minutes are spent in an intricate dance, each of us trying to find a hole in the other's defenses. Where last night's fight had been about dominance, this is about learning each other's strengths and weaknesses.

Despite the passage of five years, Jim is still in great shape. I can feel the sweat begin to trickle down my bare chest as the dance continues longer than I expected it would, can hear our bare feet slapping loudly against the wooden floor.

I step up the action a bit, not really surprised when he's able to keep up. Legs and arms flash out and sweep, block and parry. One blink, one misstep, and both of us could end up in a world of hurt. This, however, is invigorating. I haven't felt a physical thrill like this since training with Jason. I take it up one more notch, straining, pushing my limits. I sense Jim doing the same.

After a few moments, I start to gear down, only to find myself suddenly on the floor, a heavy weight on my back. Jim was in front of me, so this attack is someone else. Without thinking, I swing my elbow back, connecting with my attacker's jaw. I hear him grunt. Spinning up to my knees, I grab the attacker's head with both hands and prepare to break his neck, when Jim tackles me from the side.

"Mallory! No!" he shouts, even as our bodies slide several feet across the waxed floor.

Immediately, I'm on my feet, my right hand going to the back of my pants for my automatic, only to realize a second later that it's upstairs by the bed.

I'm cognizant of my attacker gaining his feet and pulling his own weapon.

"Simon!" Jim roars as he wraps his arms around my middle and spins me away from the weapon, using his body as a shield.

I still instantly.

"Jesus, Ellison. What in the hell is going on here?" Simon bellows back.

Jim turns us, and I watch Simon desperately try to regain his composure; his chest is heaving frantically. I shrug Jim off and take a step away from him, noting that the Captain hasn't put his weapon down yet, but at least he isn't aiming it at Jim anymore.

"Stand down, sir," Jim says firmly, but Simon refuses to comply, his eyes never leaving me as I stalk closer.

"God damn it, Mallory!" Jim shouts, yanking my arm so that I'm back by his side.

"If he doesn't stand down, I'm going to shove that gun down his throat," I growl.

Even though Simon has almost a foot on me height-wise, he swallows hard and lowers his weapon. Shafer was right when he taught me that attitude is everything.

Jim is looking flabbergasted, apparently unable to form a coherent demand.

"I was worried. Megan said you were acting oddly yesterday and then you called in today." Simon fidgeted slightly from side to side. "I just thought I'd swing by since I had a business brunch with the City Planner. I heard fighting. I called out but you didn't respond."

"I was a bit preoccupied with our morning workout," Jim says, no censure in his tone.

"Work out?" Simon gasps, clearly startled.

I arch my eyebrow, defying him to call it anything else.

"Mallory, here, was just reminding me that I've gone a little soft since I joined the force."

I bark out in laughter, surprised by Jim's self-depreciating tones. I turn to face him, and he shoots me the same goofy grin he gave me last night when he asked whether or not I wanted honey in my tea. I shake my head in amusement.

"Is this the...gentleman you were following yesterday?" Simon asks cautiously, even as he holsters his sidearm.

"Yes. Simon Banks this is Mallory."

When Jim pauses, I realize I've only given him my last name. "Marcus," I intone softly, not moving my lips.

"Marcus Mallory, Simon Banks," Jim continues smoothly.

I nod once, not reaching out to shake the captain's hand, knowing that I'm still too wired for physical contact at the moment.

"Mr. Mallory," Simon acknowledges politely.

The captain turns back to Jim, although he can't quite take his eyes off of me. "So everything's okay here?"

"Completely copasetic." Jim smiles, and I sigh inwardly, knowing he's selling it too hard.

Simon turns his head and frowns at Jim, realizing he's being given a snow job, but Jim meets his eyes unwaveringly. Simon holds the gaze for nearly a minute before he turns back toward me. "Have we met before Mr. Mallory?"

"No."

Simon's eyes narrow as he concentrates on my face. "Are you sure? You seem familiar."

I shrug nonchalantly, even though his piercing brown eyes unnerve me more than I care to admit. "Have you been in Vanrhynsdorp, South Africa recently?"

He shakes his head.

"How about Zhengzhou or Novosibirsk?" I prod a little further, just for spite.

"No," he admits quietly.

"Then I don't see how we could have."

Simon frowns again. "My mistake." His swings toward Jim. "Do you think I could stop by this evening on my way home to discuss a matter with you?"

Jim looks hesitant.

"I need to run an errand this evening," I say, smoothly cutting off Jim's protest. Looking at Simon, I add, "Why don't you plan on dropping by around seven. I'll be gone for an hour or two, plenty of time for you two to discuss...whatever."

Jim doesn't look happy, but nods his head slowly in agreement.

"Seven it is, then," Simon says quietly. "It's been..." he starts his farewell, but apparently changes his mind. Shaking his head, he moves stiffly toward the front door, looks back at us once, then leaves, shutting the door firmly behind him.

I close my eyes and release the breath it seems I've been holding.

"So, are you going to say 'I told you so'?" Jim asks in a soft teasing voice beside me.

"I never used to say 'I told you so'," I lie blatantly, but manage to do so with a straight face.

The look on Jim's face is priceless. He opens his mouth to protest, but it's obvious that several thoughts have come to him at once and he's finding himself unable to utter any of them.

I move toward my duffel bag so that he can't see my shit-eating grin. I rummage through it and find another pair of jeans and some clean boxers, then grab my black t-shirt off the back of the couch before I turn to face him again. The look on his face stops me cold.

Love.

In its rawest form.

Deep, boundless, soul-abiding love.

The clothes drop from my nerveless fingers. Jim takes a step toward me and I find myself unconsciously taking a step back.

He smiles in sympathetic understanding, even as he takes another step forward. Our dance seems choreographed with each of us moving in precise unison.

I'm startled to find my back against the front door...and still he steps forward. I raise a hand. "Don't," is all I can manage.

"Don't what?" He chuckles softly; his eyes searing me with their intensity. "Don't come any closer? Don't love you? Don't show you that you are worthy of love no matter what you've been through or what you've done?"

"Yes," I croak.

The heat from Jim's body burns my chest even though we aren't touching. "Look at me, Marcus."

I blink, shocked that he used my name.

"I accept that, whether we were lovers or not, I wouldn't have been able to prevent your extraction."

I know that admission had to cost his soul dearly. I open my mouth to reassure him, but he lays a finger over my lips.

"My only regret is that I never told you what you meant to me before you were taken, and that by my omission I gave you cause to doubt your place in my world. But know this, Marcus Mallory, I am a man who learns from his mistakes. I know you don't believe me now when I say that I love you with every atom of my soul, but I will keep telling you, will keep showing you until you know it with every fiber of your being."

"Jim--" He presses his fingers a little harder over my mouth. I close my eyes as I feel his fingers trace down my neck and splay over my collarbone. I draw in a breath that sounds way too ragged for my peace of mind, but the last person to touch me like this was Jason, four years ago.

I squeeze my eyes tighter. Now is not the time to think about the first sentinel given to Marcus. But as Jim's fingernails dance over my chest, I can't help but picture the man I grew to love. Jason, who held me when I was broken, who taught me to be strong, who protected me unto giving his own life for mine. Jason made me believe that love was possible in the darkness. But for all we felt for each other, we never consummated that love. He held me during my nightmares, laid comforting hands on me when I was weary, told me that he wanted me, understood my unwavering commitment to Jim, and waited patiently for my decision, never pressuring me or making me feel guilty for making him wait.

How ironic that he was killed on the day I decided to give myself to him.

And now, the universe seems to be giving me yet another chance at love. Is it just another set up? Will Jim be taken away from me as well?

My stomach muscles quiver as Jim lays one hand, knuckles flat, on my stomach and slides it just under the brass button of my jeans, while the other one entwines itself with my right hand.

I open my eyes to see Jason's patience shine from Jim's eyes. He smiles sweetly at me, leans forward and brushes his lips against mine.

I squeeze his fingers and bring our joined hands between us, laying them on my chest. I find myself following Jim as he pulls his head back a bit. The kiss I give him is hesitant, unsure.

I can't survive his being taken away from me again.

I hear a sob and am startled when Jim removes his hand from my pants and raises it to my face. One finger stops the tear that's running down my cheek.

I'm crying.

But that can't be right.

I haven't shed a tear in years - not even when Jason died.

"I'm not Blair," I whisper.

"Yes, you are," he counters gently. "I know Mallory protects your heart and sanity. I know he was created to protect your soul, but it's okay to come out, Blair. I'm not going anywhere and neither are you."

"You don't know that," I whisper harshly.

He leans in, nuzzles the side of my head and nibbles on my ear. "Yes, I do."

I try to shake my head, but every time my head moves his lips work their way down further on my neck. I grip the hand clasped in mine tighter to my chest.

"Jim, I -"

He shushes me softly, then licks the hollow of my neck while his free hand explores the front of my jeans.

My entire body starts to shake, not from fear, but with an emotion too foreign to name. Desire? Want? Need?

Without warning, Jim pulls back slightly and studies my face, then starts to move away.

I'm too stunned to move.

I'm surprised when my body is pulled forward, our hands still entwined as one. Jim moves us silently across the loft. He stops briefly at the bottom of the stairs and looks back at me, smiling encouragingly, then moves upstairs without hesitation.

I can feel my head shake from side to side as we reach the top step, but I can't seem to find any words.

Jim turns and doesn't seem surprised or disconcerted by my reaction. Continuing his gentleness he positions me so that I'm sitting on the edge of the bed. He sits beside me, then wraps me in his arms and guides us back onto the bed.

For several minutes, I lay stiffly in his arms while his hands tenderly scratch up and down my back.

I hate myself at this moment.

Hate myself for not giving him what he needs.

Hate myself for my hesitancy.

As if reading my thoughts, he shushes me and starts rocking us back and forth ever so slightly.

The gentle rocking movement and his body's heat lull me into relaxing, and I feel myself melting against his body; but I don't want to fall asleep again. I roll my head back to look up into his face and the smile he blesses me with is brilliant in its intensity.

"Hello, Blair," he whispers.

I swallow hard, briefly hating him for seeing me beneath Marcus, yet loving him for the exact same reason. I smile at him, wobbly, unsure.

"I love you," he tells me as if I've suddenly appeared. "I always have."

"I know," I finally manage. "It's what kept me sane." I take a deep breath. "It became my truth."

"It's why you came back." He doesn't ask, he simply states it.

"Yes."

"Because you love me as well."

"Yes."

He hugs me tightly, a satisfied chuckle reverberating from his chest. "I told you so."

I can't help it. I laugh. What is it about this man that makes all my shields and defenses useless in the wake of his love?

When he relaxes, I tentatively reach out and place my open palm over his heart. His startled breath twists at my heart because I know he wasn't expecting this from me. I run my hand over his chest to his left arm, then run my hand down the length of his arm to his long slender fingers, fingers that were made for playing the piano, not carrying a gun. I lift his hand and press a kiss to the inside of his wrist.

"Blair," he gasps out.

I roll my body over his and look down into his face, and I can see it in his face. I can see him see me. He doesn't even notice my scars, he doesn't see the barriers I've erected over the years that have become Marcus, he sees only what I've tried to hide from the world for so long. I close the distance between us and kiss him gently. Gently, because I can feel Marcus fighting to take control, can feel my alter ego wanting to rut, but Jim deserves so much more than an animalistic act.

Supporting myself on my elbows, I study Jim's face with my fingertips. He leans his head into my touch even as he wraps his strong arms around my body.

I take my time exploring each wrinkle and line on his handsome face. His eyes keep closing as if my smile is too luminous to endure for too long, but they always seek mine the instant they open.

When I lean down to kiss him, he's ready for me. Our tongues explore each other's mouths with a delicious slowness -- for there is nothing in the world at this moment except us.

"Open up your senses, Jim," I whisper between peppered kisses. "Focus on Blair." My voice is ragged with passion. "Sense me."

Jim arches slightly off the bed as he complies. Using my hips, I slowly press him back into the mattress. Goosebumps cover his skin as I continue to move against him.

His breathing becomes ragged; his eyes lose their focus as he gives in to the sensual pleasure. He tightens his hold on me, but I whisper soothingly to him, "Feel it, Jim. Feel what Blair does for you."

Jim moans and I bite the inside of my cheek, keeping Marcus at bay. Our dance is unhurried. I nibble at his ear, the side of his neck and face. I keep the pace deliberate even when I feel his fists clenching behind my back.

"Smell me," I demand quietly. Jim immediately breathes me in deep, a satisfied smile blossoming over his face.

"Taste me."

I gasp when he leans upward and licks the sweat from my collarbone, not expecting the electricity which races through my body as his rough tongue explores my skin.

I undulate against him, grinding our hips together. "Feel me."

Jim moans again.

"Come on, Jim. Crank it up."

"B-b-blair!"

"Let it go, babe. Let it go. I'll catch you."

And he does.

I wrap my arms around his head and hold him safe while he cries out his release against my chest. My own pleasure takes me by surprise and I press against him harder, both of us holding the other tight as the waves of heat ripple through us.

My chest is heaving and for the first time in a long time I feel free. But even as we lay entwined with each other, I feel Marcus return.

"I love you," I whisper urgently beside his ear, needing him to know before I sink back behind my walls. "Please don't give up on me."

He takes my face in his hands and watches as Marcus wraps himself around me once again. Jim smiles in understanding, no judgment in his eyes. "I'm as patient as the ocean, Blair. I can live with Marcus until you feel safe enough to walk by my side in the light of day."

Before the walls totally close around my heart, I whisper, "I'm going to hold you to that promise, lover. I'm going to hold you to that."


	5. Confrontations

"You don't have to go."

I turn and look at Jim's pale face. "I'm just going to get some supplies." I close the distance between us, clench the front of his shirt in my hand and pull until the straining fabric causes his neck to bend toward me. I brush a light kiss over his lips. "I'll be back. I promise. I just need to not be here when he comes by again."

Jim sighs and opens his mouth to object, but I stop his protestations with a deeper kiss. He moans softly into my mouth and grasps the back of my shirt. When we finally break apart, he whispers, "Okay, we'll do it your way."

I can practically hear him say "for now" but choose to ignore his stubbornness. I know Jim has this fantasy where I'm welcomed back with open arms by the old gang, but it's not going to happen - no matter how much he wants it.

"Two hours...tops," I promise.

Jim flattens his body against mine, presses me back against the door and devours my mouth. I know he's trying to stall me, trying to keep me here so I'm forced to deal with Simon again, and in a moment of weakness, I consider letting him have his way, but sanity prevails. I chuckle as I slowly push him back, letting him know I'm on to his game.

He looks slightly abashed, but not terribly repentant.

"Two hours?" he asks softly, his index finger deliberately trailing down my chest toward my groin.

"Tops," I tell him again.

He doesn't step back and I realize he's not going to either. Grinning at him, I slide past the knob, open the door, wink at him, then move into the corridor. I raise a hand to my mouth, my facial muscles aching slightly, not used to the smile residing there. I snort with amusement then jog down the stairs.

Once I reach the sidewalk, I look up at the balcony knowing before I see him that he's there, watching me.

It's killing him to let me go, but he's doing it for me...to prove that he trusts me.

"Two hours, tops," I tell him conversationally.

Even from here, I can see him swallow, but he nods, letting me know he's heard me.

I waggle my eyebrows at him and he laughs.

I turn and walk down Prospect. There's a little drug store a couple of blocks down the way, and if I remember correctly, there's a used book store two blocks past that. I think I'll kill some time looking at books, then on the way home I'll buy a few things I think we'll need if this relationship continues to go in the direction I think it's going.

I snort with amusement as I realize I'm practically giddy. I wonder what Shafer would think of Mallory being whimsical? No doubt he'd send me to the medic.

I halt in my tracks as I start to pass the bookstore. Good Lord, where is my mind?

"Mr. Mallory?"

A cold fist clenches around my stomach.

Shit.

I close my eyes briefly, then square my shoulders and turn to face the pleasant tenor voice.

It's a cop.

"Marcus Mallory?"

"Is there a problem, Officer?"

For a moment, I'm lost in memory.

I don't see the freckled face redhead in front of me, but the face of an older officer, who seemed to practically step out of the bushes as I was jogging down the steps of Rainier.

"What's wrong? Where's Jim?"

"Can you come with me, Mr. Sandburg?"

Of course, I'd gone with him. I didn't know if Jim had been hurt or if he'd zoned and Simon needed me. I should have demanded to see his identification. I should have looked at his face closer and realized it wasn't one of the officers I knew. I should have...

"Mr. Mallory?"

"Yes, I'm sorry. You were saying?" Fuck, I'm going to get myself killed this time.

"Would you mind coming down to the station with us?"

Us?

I look over my shoulder and see an older cop. Robertson. I remember him from my time with the department. We never really worked any cases together, but he always seemed like a good man. Robertson is looking nervous. His hand is resting casually on the grip of his service revolver.

"Am I under arrest?"

The youth shakes his head. "No, sir. You're just wanted for questioning?"

"In regards to what?"

"I don't know, sir. We were just asked to bring you downtown."

"May I see your identification, son?"

The boy, who can't be any older than twenty-four, blinks at me, then looks at his partner for guidance. I can see Robertson's reflection nod in the glass in front of me. The officer pulls out his wallet and shows it to me. Thomas Hennessey. Good Irish name. I turn to face his older partner, who already has his identification out for my inspection.

Everything seems legit. That and the fact I remember Robertson calms my nerves slightly.

"All right," I finally concede. "Do you mind if I make a phone call?"

"Can you make it from downtown?" Thomas asks me.

I can see Robertson shake his head slightly. The boy is sounding far too apologetic for his liking.

"I suppose."

"Are you carrying a weapon, Mr. Mallory?" Robertson asks, taking charge of the situation with quiet authority.

"Yes, I am."

"Do you have a permit to carry a concealed weapon, sir?"

"As an agent of the United States, I am fully authorized to carry a concealed weapon. Would you care to see my permit?" I ask them, just in case they think they're dealing with some street perp.

"Yes, sir, I would."

Moving very slowly, so as not to make anyone overly nervous, I pull my wallet from my back pocket and show them my identification. I flip a leather flap and show Robertson my permit.

"I assume that since I'm not under arrest and am cooperating that I'll be allowed to retain my piece in the spirit of interdepartmental cooperation?"

Hennessey looks nervously at Robertson for direction. The older cop nods, then directs me to the back of their squad car. I wait for him to open the door, then slide into the car.

As the officers get into the squad, I can taste the copper seeping down my throat from where I'm biting the inside of my cheek. Hennessey is driving with Robertson riding shotgun, but sitting at an angle so that he has me in full view. I don't even attempt conversation. I'm too lost in my memories...memories of that May afternoon as the patrol car screamed through town. When we pulled up to the warehouse, I never hesitated, I simply ran after the officer, knowing that each second that passed could mean the difference between life and death to Jim. If I knew then what I know now I would have jumped from the third story window as soon as I realized I was in trouble.

There's no sense of relief when the patrol car dips down into the familiar subbasement of the PD.

I have a bad feeling about this. Simon isn't on his way to talk to Jim. He's come up with some convenient excuse about why he can't show up; the call, no doubt, timed to ring just seconds before my escort brought themselves to my attention. A conveniently timed distraction to make Jim lose track of me.

When the car stops, Hennessey opens the back door. I take a moment and sink further down into Mallory.

If a confrontation is what Banks wants, then by God, he's going to get it.

The ride to the seventh floor is uneventful. I'm allowed to keep my weapon because they have no valid reason to take it from me, although I can tell my escort isn't too happy about that fact. Both men paled visibly when Agent Marcus Mallory got out of the back seat of their patrol.

I'm led to an interrogation room. Once again they ask for my identification. I flip the wallet to Robertson, then take a seat.

They can tear the wallet apart for all I care. They won't discover anything. Everything in it will tell them who I am, or, more accurately, who I've become. There isn't one scrap of information in it that links me to Blair Sandburg - not even a picture of Jim. I hadn't been allowed to keep any. They'd all been taken away from me as punishment for my stubbornness.

I place my elbows on the table, entwine my fingers together and rest my chin on them, knowing Banks is observing me from behind the wall of mirrors.

No doubt inquiries are being sent at this very moment to my former employers. While I would have preferred my supervisors not know I was back in Cascade, it won't really come as any big surprise to them that this is where I headed once I was granted my freedom. However, knowing and knowing are two different things and I resent having to show my hand.

I know I'm safe though. The information I have guarantees not only my freedom, but Jim's safety as well. If they thought Lee Brackett could play games, they know how ruthless Marcus Mallory is. They should. They created him.

I regulate my breathing even though I know there are no sentinels monitoring me. It never hurts to stay in practice.

Banks is, no doubt, pacing now, trying to put the pieces of this puzzle together. How does Jim know an operative? Does he know me from his black ops days? Am I trying to recruit Jim back into the show?

The door opens and Rafe walks in and sets my wallet on the table. I blink once in shock, but make no other movements. I watch as he takes me in. He's curious. It's apparent Banks hasn't informed him as to why I'm here. He smiles at me. "Here's your wallet, Mr. Mallory. It shouldn't be too much longer."

"I have an appointment in an hour and a half," I say casually, letting Banks know that I'm not going to let him yank me around all evening. "If I'm going to be here any longer than that, I'll need to make a phone call."

"It shouldn't be too much longer," he says apologetically. He seems to be expecting me to ask more questions. When I don't, he shrugs slightly and moves back out of the room.

I don't reach for the wallet until the door has closed. I slip the billfold into my back pocket and resume my position...giving Banks nothing.

Five more minutes pass and still nothing. I don't let any irritation show on my face for that will give Banks power over me. I wait as if I have all the time in the world.

The thought is no sooner out, and Henry comes sauntering into the room. "Would you like something to drink, Mr. Mallory?"

"No." I say simply, then add as an afterthought, "Thank you."

"Cool." He turns and leaves.

What is Banks up to? I know he's studying me. I can practically feel him vibrate with frustrated curiosity behind the one-way glass. But why has he sent in Brown and Rafe? It doesn't make any sense.

When the door opens again, I semi-expect Rhonda to come in, but it's not. Captain Simon Banks cuts an impressive figure, filling the doorway as he does.

I look at him casually.

I'm not impressed.

Banks may be a big fish in this pond, but if my time with the Agency has taught me anything it's that no matter how dangerous Cascade seems, it's really only a little pond in the grand scheme of things.

He moves with great deliberation toward the closest chair, pulling it out and sitting in it, positioning his hands exactly like mine before he comes to a full rest.

We sit like this for several minutes. I'm very amused. If he thinks he can out-wait me, he has another think coming. I have to admit though I can see where a tactic like this would work against a street thug. Banks exudes an aura of power that's rather impressive. However, I've out-stared Shafer, who regularly has men like Banks for breakfast.

As earlier predicted, Rhonda comes in and sets a small stack of papers in front of the captain. Her eyes nervously flicker toward me before she moves toward the door.

Simon lets out a slow breath, then makes a show of looking at the papers. I know what's on them. Hell, I wrote most of it myself.

He's struggling for an opening. He knows he has no cause to hold me and he knows that I know that little tidbit as well. I'm here out of professional courtesy and because if I don't nip this in the bud now, Banks will become a thorn in my side in the future.

"I wish to apologize for this morning," he says, finally.

I blink once. I wasn't expecting this tactic. But no matter. I shrug, my mask of indifference firmly in place.

"Jim is a trusted colleague and friend."

He looks at me as if he's waiting for me to say something. I raise an eyebrow, letting him know that I'm bored now.

I can practically see the steam escape from his ears. My apathy is frustrating him, but yet again, he hasn't really said anything to which I need to respond.

"Well, I won't keep you much longer, Mr. Mallory. I was just hoping you could clarify a few things for me."

I nod my head, expectantly.

"Have you ever seen this man before?" He takes a 3x5 picture from the inside pocket of his expensive Brooks Brothers suit jacket and tosses it on the table in front of me.

It's a picture of Blair Sandburg; glasses perched on the end of his nose and a slightly surprised look on his face, the beginnings of a smile forming as he looks into the camera. I have no memory of this particular picture being taken.

"Yes."

Banks is startled. It wasn't the answer he'd been expecting. "When?" he gasps.

"This morning, at Jim's place. He has pictures of this man all around the loft."

Simon slouches against the back of his chair. I've effectively derailed his line of questioning and he's having a hard time regrouping.

He tries to rally. "Have you ever seen him before today?"

I look down at the photo again. "Not that I recall." Looking Banks straight in the face, I ask, "Why?"

"He died a little over five years ago."

"I see. I'm sorry." I watch the captain's gaze drop to the picture. "So were he and Ellison lovers?" I ask for spite.

Banks' gaze pops up to my face. "Why do you ask?"

I shrug. "Pictures of the boy are all over Jim's home. You're doing a fairly good rendition of the 'you hurt him, you'll answer to me' song and dance. I just figured..." I deliberately let my sentence trail off.

Simon snorts once in amusement, but it fades quickly. "I suppose I am." He pulls the picture back across the table. "James Ellison is the best detective, hell, the best cop it has ever been my privilege to know. Since Sandburg's death...that's the name of the boy. Blair Sandburg. Since Blair's death, Jim has been a machine. Not in terms of his emotions, but in the way he approaches his job. He always gets his man."

I raise an eyebrow to indicate that he can continue if he wants.

"In the last five years...no, that's not quite correct. He was a mess for about three months, but since Blair's death, after he pulled his life back together, Jim has never taken a personal day, never voluntarily taken a holiday, although I have been successful from time to time in forcing him to take some leave."

Banks' gaze holds mine. "So you can imagine my curiosity when he calls in and asks for a personal day, with absolutely no warning."

I shrug, telling him it's an interesting tidbit, but I'm not sure how it affects me.

"Especially after he'd spent most of the previous day tailing a complete stranger."

Oh shit.

"So when I heard that said stranger pulled a gun on him, I wasn't too astonished. I wasn't happy, but not terribly surprised. What piqued my interest was hearing that Jim all but sexually assaulted this same stranger on the hood of the stranger's car in the middle of a deserted parking lot."

I blink. What the hell? There's no possible way he could know that and there's no way Jim told him. And if he knew this information this morning, he'd never have left the loft.

I blink again.

Megan.

Fuck.

I raise an eyebrow at the captain, but say nothing.

"What I'm curious about," Banks says with forced casualty as he leans forward and picks the picture off the table and taps it against his other hand, "and once you answer this one little question, I'll have the patrol officers take you back to the bookstore where they picked you up, is why you went to visit a fountain at Rainier University at two o'clock in the morning?"

Fuck. Me. Hard.

My throat is instantly dry, but I refuse to swallow, not wanting to give him any indication that he's got me.

He leans back in his chair, wordlessly gloating. I can all but see the canary feathers drifting from his mouth. "I have a theory," he says after several moments of silence.

I can't speak. Even if I wanted to, which I don't, I am incapable of speech.

"Want to hear it?" He makes a big show of looking at his watch. "I mean, after all, I have fifty more minutes until you're officially late for your appointment."

I breathe in through my nose, trying to keep from giving myself away, physically.

He takes my silence for acquiescence.

"I don't think Blair Sandburg is dead at all."

I return his stare with a nonchalance I don't feel.

"I can only imagine why Sandburg was taken or what he went through. What I want to know is how you got away?"

I jump to my feet. The chair skitters into the wall with a crash. Had Simon betrayed me? Were all my years of hell because he no longer had an abiding tolerance for a hyperactive, know-it-all, police observer?

"What?" I demand, my voice becoming as raw as it had been when Shafer destroyed my last picture of Jim.

Banks stands, but pales when I pull my automatic from the back of my pants and aim it at the center of his forehead.

"The price of betrayal is death," I hiss.

He freezes, trying to stand perfectly still, although his trembling body makes that impossible.

"Betrayal?" he finally asks in a strangled whisper.

"What did the Agency pay you to hand Sandburg over to them?"

"What," he shouts, but then drops his voice down to a whisper, "are you talking about?"

I catalogue his senses, his body's reactions -- a nifty trick that Jason taught me. He's terrified, that's a given. I look for signs of a lie, but find none. He simply asked the wrong question...or the right one depending on your point of view.

"Think, man," he pleads. "You're in the middle of a police station. You'll never get out of here in one piece."

A feral grin blossoms over my face. "You think not?"

Sweat beads on his forehead.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to regain some control over my emotions.

I walk around him, never lowering my weapon as I head toward the door. "This interview is over."

I holster the automatic and step into the hallway. I can hear Banks collapsing into his chair. I move resolutely toward the stairwell.

"Blair? Blair Sandburg?"

I stumble to a stop when I realize the hallway is blocked.

Joel Taggert stands looking at me as if he's seen a ghost, which I suppose he has.

I spin around, intent on heading for the other stairwell, but Megan is standing several feet behind me.

"Sandy? Sandy, it's you, isn't it?"

Simon braces himself in the doorway of the interrogation room, looking shaky, but recovering quickly.

This. Is. Not. Good.

I twist back toward Joel. The only way I'm getting out of here is to shove my way past everyone. Given my choices, I decide that Joel is the weakest link. But as I push past him, he reaches out and touches my shoulder.

I feel like I've been burned. I skitter to the opposite side of the hallway and bounce slightly off the wall. Before I can blink, I'm engulfed in a bear hug.

Joel sobs against my neck and shoulder. "Iknewyouweren'tdead. Iknewyouweren'tdead. Iknewyouweren'tdead."

The only way to free myself is to break his grip, but yet I can't find it within myself to harm this gentle man whose kindness to me often surpassed Jim's.

His entire frame is shaking with grief, with joy, and with about a hundred other emotions I can no longer name or recognize.

I feel the damn within me quiver and I force myself to shore it up quickly for if it breaks I will be destroyed. Practically against my will, my arms come up and gently hold the crying man. "Don't cry, Joel. Please don't cry."

But he weeps all the harder. "What did those bastards do to you? What did they do, Blair? I swear to God I'll hunt every last one of them down and kill them. I swear it on my soul."

I shush him softly. "There's no need, my friend. No need. They've already been dealt with."

Joel pulls back slightly, looks me in the face, then tenderly kisses my forehead. I hear Megan crying softly in the background. When I look up, I see Simon's tear streaked face as well.

"My son. My dear, sweet, precious son," Joel whispers hoarsely, his voice clogging with emotion as he hugs me tight again.

And in the face of his love, I am helpless. I can feel the tears burning down my cheeks.

Damn, that's twice in less than twenty-four hours.

"Move along. There's nothing to see here." I hear Simon's shaky voice shooing people away, trying to give us a few more moments of privacy.

I sigh quietly, knowing that we're making a spectacle of ourselves. Joel pulls back, but never releases my right hand. With the back of my left hand and wrist, I wipe my eyes. I see Brian and Henry standing behind Megan, looking confused.

Man, I'm glad Shafer isn't alive to see me like this.

I release a shaky breath. It's time to get out of here.

I open my mouth to speak just as Jim walks around the corner. He stops cold in his tracks, looking confused as he takes in the scene before him. It's his confusion that saves him. If I thought for a moment he was a part of this...

"What's...what's going on here?" he asks quietly, his eyes bouncing from Joel and me to Simon and Megan.

"When did you know?" Megan demands, angrily wiping the tears from her face.

I clear my throat. "She followed you yesterday," I tell Jim.

Jim's eyes widen. "Shit." They get bigger as the impact of that simple statement sinks into his thought process. He turns to face his boss and his partner and swallows hard. "For sure? Not until he stopped at the fountain last night."

Both Simon and Megan nod, apparently accepting his explanation.  
2  
"Jim," I rasp, my voice bordering on desperate. "I need to go home."

Jim immediately nods, which makes the others in the hallway frown.

I gently pat Joel's hand as I pull mine loose. I take a step back toward the stairwell.

"Blair?" Joel calls after me as I make my escape.

"Mallory," Simon says in a louder voice as I reach the stairs.

I stop my retreat and look back at him. "We're here, twenty-four/seven/three sixty-five. You're not alone anymore."

I can feel myself nodding, although it's the last thing I want to do. I don't want them thinking I'm coming back. I don't want them seeing this acquiescence for a weakness in my resolve. But right now, all I can think about is retreat. I slip into the stairwell and jog down the steps.

I don't know how long I've been running. I know the sun is cresting over the mountains, so it's been a while. Every time I think about stopping, the pain in my chest becomes overwhelming. Losing myself in the rhythm of my breathing, in the stretching of my muscles is the only thing keeping me sane at the moment.

Collin and I ran like this once, after a successful mission where the higher ups thought it wasn't worth the risk to pick us up. Like Greek messengers we ran, ran until all we knew was running, ran until someone caught us and told us it was okay to stop.

I shouldn't have gone back to Cascade. Should have left as soon as I realized that Jim thought I was dead. And yet, I continued to linger.

Why?

Because Blair wanted to be found. That's the only thing that makes sense. Even though he knew the consequences would be profound, I think Blair needed to see if he could go back to his old life if the opportunity presented itself.

Apparently, he can.

So why are we running?

Because if Blair goes back, where does that leave me?

If I had any breath, I'd laugh.

Who would have thought it? Marcus Mallory, wunderkind, super spy, master guide, is schizophrenic.

As much as Blair wants his old life back, he can't have it. He's only currently free because of my strength, my cunning. If the powers-that-be don't take him seriously, they'll come and take back what they believe they've created. He can't survive without Mallory. Shouldn't want to. There is no happily ever after in this life. Or at least, in mine.

 _My son. My dear, sweet, precious son._

Those words keep resounding in my head, burning my brain. Kind words such as these will never be spoken to Mallory. No one appreciates what I've done to protect Blair. No one understands. All they see are my scars, my hardness.

Who can love a cold-hearted bastard?

A dark shape appears in my line of vision. I blink hard, trying to clear my sight. I shake my head slightly. It looks like Jim.

As I draw closer I realize it is Jim.

He turns away from me and starts jogging in the direction I'm headed. When I reach him, he steps into my path, trying to squeeze me off the road. I try to speed up, but I have no reserves left. He bumps into me again, sending me careening off the road into a copse of trees.

I grab a nearby elm and try to maintain my balance.

The pain within my chest rises up to choke me.

Jim is once again in my line of sight. "Let it go, Mallory."

I shake my head. I can't let it go. Doesn't he understand that?

"I'll catch you."

"No," I rasp. "You'll catch Blair."

He blinks in confusion and I gasp, desperate for air. Now that I've stopped running, I can't seem to catch my breath.

Something passes over his face, although what I can only speculate.

"I love you."

I want to scream in rage. "No, you don't." My chest heaves frantically. "You don't even know who I am."

He takes a step closer to me. "Yes, I do."

I use both arms to shove him back when he steps too close.

"You're Marcus Mallory," he says with sudden assuredness. "You're Blair's protector. You're his strength and his cunning. Without you, he would have died."

"He did die," I spit out venomously.

"No, he didn't. You would never have allowed that, Marcus. His innocence, his purity means too much to you. You sacrificed too much to let him die."

"He can't have his life back, don't you understand?" I scream at him.

Jim nods. "Blair was never weak," he says reasonably.

My laughter borders on hysterical.

Jim steps closer again. "I love you, Marcus."

"You son of a bitch!" I swing at him, but he easily dodges my punch.

He uses my momentum to spin me into a tree, wrenching one of my arms behind my back.

"Be that as it may, I still love you."

I try to slam my head back into his face, but miss. "You love Blair."

"Yes, I do," he whispers into my ear. "But what I didn't realize before is that you're as much Blair as Blair is Marcus. I was wrong in trying to separate you."

I scream and try to push back, but he holds me in place.

"Let it go, Marcus. Let it all go. I'll catch you. I swear, I will."

"No," I sob. "I can't."

"You can."

"You don't understand. There won't be anything left if I let it go."

"You're wrong," he whispers. "You'll still be here when the storm dies. I promise you that, Marcus. And I'll be here as well. I swear to you, I'll be here."

Using the last of my strength, I break away from him and swing, aiming for his jaw, but he backs out of my reach.

"That's right, Marcus, show me what you're made of. Show me your strength," he taunts, dancing just outside my swings.

I try to knock the smug look off his face, but can't seem to connect. I try again and again, but never seem to get close enough.

Finally, I'm unable to lift my arms anymore. The first sob drops me to my knees, and I realize I'm not going to survive this devastation.

"Yes, you will," Jim reassures me, appearing as if by magic at my side.

Another sob has me curling forward, trying to protect my chest, my forehead all but pressing against the ground.

"You're stronger than you think you are, Marcus Mallory Sandburg."

Marcus Mallory Sandburg. Is that who I am now? Or who I'll be if I survive?

"Let go, Marcus. Let go."

The wail builds strong from within me, building to a crescendo until I can no longer keep it inside. I release it, flinging my head back as I scream to the heavens. My only consolation is that I can feel Jim's arms wrapped tightly around me. Having no other option, I let go of my rage and pray that Jim is strong enough to hold on to me.

"Easy. Just a sip. That's right."

"Wake up, Mallory. Come on. Open your eyes."

"I'm still here, Mallory. I'm not leaving you. I'll wait forever, if need be."

My mouth feels dry; that thought comes to me just a split second before the rest of my body reports in.

Damn, I feel like I've been worked over.

Where the fuck am I?

I open my eyes and focus on the gaudy picture in front of me.

A hotel. And a cheap one at that.

Okay, think, you idiot. Where are you?

I gasp as my memories return, threatening to choke me.

"Hey, there," a gentle voice says, drawing my attention outward again.

Jim.

I blink at him, unable to speak, although my mouth does open, trying.

Jim reaches for something outside of my sight, then shows me a glass of ice water. He places a straw to my lips. "Easy sips," he instructs.

I comply, my eyes never leaving his face as I suck in the much-needed moisture. He watches me, then carefully pulls the straw from my lips. I try to raise my hand to stop him, but nothing happens.

"You can have some more in a few minutes. I just don't want to shock your system too much."

I nod, letting him know I understand.

He's silent for several moments, just watching my face. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

I blink again, trying to process his apology.

"I wanted Blair back so bad that I failed to see that he had evolved."

I close my eyes, but open them when Jim tenderly caresses my cheek.

"You saw my need and tried to give him to me. God, what that must have cost you." He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. "While Blair was strong, there's no way he could have survived the world of espionage with his soul intact. He had to change in order to endure. But what you failed to realize is that Marcus is not a separate entity from Blair; it's who you became."

Jim takes my right hand in his and places it over his heart. "And what I've discovered is that I love who you became just as much as I loved who you were. I love your strength, your courage, and the fact that your spirit still exists despite the hell you've been through. I'll admit that I don't know Marcus as well as I'd like, but I hope you'll allow me to get to know him...you better."

I gasp, a shaky breath escaping me.

"I love you, Marcus Sandburg."

Can Marcus and Blair survive as one? I shake my head. How can Jim possibly love who I've become?

He leans forward and brushes his lips over mine. "How can I not?"

And like a baby seeking nourishment, I seek his lips, desperate for what he's offering me. He deepens the kiss, his tongue seeking entrance to my mouth. I open, surrendering to him. And while Marcus Mallory submits to no man, Marcus Sandburg can yield his heart; can realize that by giving his love he is not a weaker man.

"Jim," I whisper, terrified of this new bend in the road.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispers against my neck. "We can do this - together."

"Promise?" I ask, remembering his extracting the same vow from me what seems like a lifetime ago.

He smiles sweetly, obviously remembering the same conversation. "It's not going to be easy."

"Easy is for wimps," I throw back at him.

He chuckles, then bends down and kisses me with everything he has. I'm finally able to raise my arms and I clench the back of his shirt in my fists, holding him tightly against me.

When we break apart, both panting for air, I ask, "So, now what?"

He kisses my forehead and each of my eyebrows, before he answers. "So, now we go home."

Home.

I feel my bottom lip tremble. Home. Not just for Blair, but for Marcus as well. For the phoenix who rose out of the ashes of his world - reborn.


	6. Love's Greatest Gift

The stairs loom to my left, but I can't seem to find the energy to make myself climb them tonight. Surely, taking the elevator one time won't kill me, won't weaken me.

Yeah, I can just hear Shafer's screaming reaction to that little obfuscation. Well, screw him. His opinion doesn't count anymore, especially since he's dead. He wasn't the one who had to chase Billy Huffman halfway through Cascade.

Stabbing at the elevator button, I suppress the tired sigh which is determined to work its way out of my body.

Of course, come Monday morning, everyone at the station is going to be calling me 'The Terminator'.

 _He just kept coming and coming. He's a fucking terminator, man. Nothing stops him. I thought I was dead. I thought I was just fucking gone. What do you want to know? I'll tell you everything. Just make him get out of here. Okay?_

I swear, Simon, I never touched the boy. I can't help it if he's chirping like a pigeon on everyone he's ever known, thought he's known or wanted to know. Hell, he's probably giving them dirt on his grandmother.

Why is it when nothing stops Jim he's a fucking Mountie, but if I do the same thing I'm a terminator? I huff in amusement. Although the next time Jim goes into the station, I'm pretty sure he's going to find he's been upgraded. It's about damn time, too. He's been getting too big a kick out of being the lesser of two evils for a change.

Who'd have ever thought I'd be able to out bad-ass, 'Bad-Ass' Ellison?

Ellison and Sandburg, the Terminator Squad.

Has a nice ring to it.

Looking at my watch as I step into the elevator, I realize I have enough time to use all the hot water in Jim's monster water heater and still get dinner started before he gets home. I'm definitely thinking something simple tonight. Angel hair pasta and squash. That's about as complicated as I can handle at the moment.

The elevator dings and I realize I'd let my eyes fall shut. Damn, I really am tired. Yeah, well if patrol hadn't let the little stoolie get past them...

No, I'm letting this go.

Whoa! Where did that come from?

Stepping off the elevator, I chuckle again and trudge down the hallway. Marcus Sandburg, welcome to your hippie past.

I love this dingy, no-frills corridor because...because I know it'll always lead me home.

Home.

Damn. I really need to get that shower or I'm going to get sentimental over a piece of interior architecture that's in desperate need of a refinish.

The aroma of clam chowder greets me as I slip my key into the lock and open the door.

"Jim," I groan his name, happily. "Whatever you want, man, it's yours."

There's no response, but I hear the shower running. Anderson must have gotten him on the stand earlier than he expected.

Dropping my keys in the basket, I frown when I realize that Jim's keys aren't sitting beside mine. Old paranoias rear their ugly heads, but I shove them back down, forcibly. Thieves don't break into other people's homes, make clam chowder and take showers. Well, at least, on a local level.

I toe off my Severes and push them underneath the coat hooks while I hang up my jacket. I trudge slowly across the loft and wearily climb the stairs. Sweats, I think, will be the dress of the evening. I quickly shuck my jeans and shirt and slip into one of Jim's sweat suits. I know I look ridiculous in it, but I like the smell...and the look in Jim's eyes when he sees me in it.

A sigh escapes my body.

Jim has been so incredibly patient with me that every once in a while I toss the bedroom and look for his pod. The first month we were together I kept trying to figure out what he wanted from me. It wasn't until the second month that I realized he was just happy. Happy to have me back. He wasn't kidding about being in this thing together, either.

God, I'm sappy today.

Shafer would have made my sentimental ass run five miles, despite my having run all day long, to purge myself of the emotions which will make me weak if left unchecked.

I jog down the stairs, intent on getting something to drink and taste-testing the chowder. The water in the bathroom is turned off as I'm pulling the iced tea pitcher out of the refrigerator. I put the pitcher on the island and turn to the cupboards to pull down two glasses. I'm tempted, since I'm breaking all protocols tonight, to try a beer but decide against it. I know I'm safe...I just can't let loose just yet.

Poor Jim. He's decided to go dry until I feel comfortable drinking alcohol again, even though he doesn't understand my decision, since 'no alcohol' isn't a covert ops thing, it's a Marcus thing. I tried to explain it once, that I just can't be anything less than one hundred percent anymore. I can't let my guard down.

It has to be love for him to put up with my neurotic idiosyncrasies.

Pulling an ice tray out of the freezer, I pop the ice cubes into our glasses. I'm tempted to leave the tray in the sink for old times sake, but don't. I mean, the man made me clam chowder after all.

I quickly fill the tray with water and put it back in the freezer, then turn back to fill the glasses before putting the pitcher back in the refrigerator. Even tired, I fall into routine. Shafer managed to do what no other human on the planet could do - make me clean up after myself.

The bathroom door opens behind me and I pick up both glasses and turn to greet Jim.

Only it's not Jim.

The glasses slip from my hands and crash to the floor, causing them to shatter and the iced tea to splatter far and wide around me.

Naomi.

In Jim's robe.

I can't breathe.

"Oh! My!" she stutters, her shock wearing off quicker than mine. "Who are you?" She clutches the white terry cloth robe in front of her.

I can't speak.

Literally.

Couldn't speak if my life depended on it.

A myriad of emotions cross over her face, too numerous to count or categorize. But as fast as they appeared, they disappear, leaving only a carefully neutral look.

"I've startled you," she whispers in apology.

Jim told me she usually calls before she stops by for a visit, which is pretty unusual for Naomi. But if she called, he was in court and wouldn't have gotten the message...thereby not giving me any time to enact my plan. We had decided -- I had decided -- that it would be best for all concerned if I were to go away for a few days if and when she called. Jim wasn't happy with my decision, but I had already resigned myself to never seeing her again. I thought I was okay with that decision, but now that she's standing in front of me I realize...

I turn away from her and rest both hands heavily on the counter, supporting my weight.

I need to go before she realizes...

I need...

The front door slams open and Jim comes bursting through looking like an avenging angel, his automatic drawn, his eyes scanning every aspect of the loft.

When he sees Naomi, he immediately holsters his piece, even as he turns to make eye contact with me. His face pales, instantly realizing we have a situation on our hands.

"Naomi." He moves toward my mother and turns on the charm. "I'm so sorry about the entrance. I heard two fast heartbeats..."

I can hear him close the distance between them, although I can't seem to make myself turn around to take in the scene.

"Hey, Jim," her light voice greets, just seconds before she 'eeps' a little from Jim's welcoming hug. "I'm so sorry. I seem to have disturbed...your guest."

"Yes, I noticed." He chuckles, although even a complete stranger could tell his heart wasn't in it. "Why don't you go get dressed and get something on your feet, while I clean this up?"

She hesitates for a second. "Okay." It's obvious she doesn't want to leave, but she does.

When the French doors close, he moves next to me, careful not to touch me. He's learned, the hard way unfortunately, that there are times when I need space, when I have to have it.

I can feel his eyes studying my face, trying to gauge where I am emotionally. Swallowing once, I cock my head slightly so he can see my eyes.

"You can't stay."

I nod, grateful he understands.

"Where will you go?"

I open my mouth to speak, but I can't.

"Simon. Go to Simon's."

I raise a questioning eyebrow at him. He's lost his mind. Yes, I work for the man, but we haven't gotten along since I returned. I still haven't quite forgiven him for calling my old bosses, for exposing me before I was ready. He understands his mistake now, but now it's too late. Not that they'll try anything, it's just that they know.

He's also scared of me.

And I like it that way.

I may report to the man, may take assignments from him, may serve under his jurisdiction, but I've never let him forget what I'm capable of wreaking. Never again will I give anyone power over me.

"This is different," Jim says, as if reading my mind.

I snort, letting him know what I think of that idea.

"Please," he whispers, reaching out and cupping my cheek in his hand. "I need to know where you are."

Releasing a slow breath, I nod my compliance, not being able to ignore his fear.

He leans forward and brushes the tenderest of kisses over my lips. I deepen the kiss, needing our connection. We both release quiet sighs when we pull back.

He nods at me, letting me go. I release the edge of the countertop, feeling the cramp in my hands for the first time, and realize how hard I've been gripping it. I turn toward the door, but the French doors open behind us.

"You're not leaving?" Naomi practically cries out.

"Ah, you see, well, Marcus has some errands he has to run."

"Nonsense," she counters in a calmer voice, breezing into the hallway and grabbing the broom and dustpan. "It's the weekend. Whatever it is can wait. Besides, I've made dinner and it's ready to eat, if one of you will set the table."

She moves quickly toward the mess and starts to clean with a single-mindedness that surprises me.

"Naomi," Jim starts, but Naomi cuts him off.

"No." She stands and releases a long sigh. "This man has practically seen me in my all together. The least he can do is have dinner with us to make up for it."

I can't help it, I smile. God, I love her.

Jim raises a questioning eyebrow at me. It's totally my call. He'll support me no matter what I do.

Can I do this?

Probably not.

But...I want to. God help me. I want to.

I point to the bathroom.

A tender smile graces Jim's face. He's proud of me for staying. "Yeah, dinner can wait."

I scoot around Naomi, not getting too close, then practically race into the bathroom. It's definitely not one of my more graceful exits.

Not wanting to hear the murmuring from the other room, I turn on the shower even before I undress, knowing that Naomi will pepper Jim with questions as soon as she thinks I can't hear them. I know Jim won't tell her anything, but I can't deal with this situation just yet.

Both Jim's and Naomi's eyes are on me the instant I step out of the bathroom.

"Dinner's ready." Naomi busies herself by ladling the chowder into bowls.

Jim smiles encouragingly at me and points to one of the chairs. I move slowly toward it. He rests his hand at the small of my back and I close my eyes, absorbing our connection, trying to ignore the voices screaming in my head.

"You can do this," he whispers encouragingly in my ear.

I take a deep breath, open my eyes and sit in the chair.

"Here we are now," Naomi says cheerfully as she sets a bowl in front of me and a bowl in front of Jim's place, then turns back toward the stove to get hers. "I really must apologize," she says as she returns, "it must've been quite a shock to find a stranger in your bathroom after a long day at work."

As I have a spoon in my mouth, I smile around it and shrug my shoulders.

"I didn't realize you had taken on another roommate, Jim."

Jim looks uncomfortable. "Marcus is...ah...Marcus isn't quite a roommate, Naomi."

Her curious eyes focus on Jim. "Oh?"

"He's...uh...he's...uh...rooming upstairs."

Naomi blinks as she absorbs what Jim's told her. "Congratulations," she says suddenly, her eyes full of honest joy as she beams back and forth between us.

"Thank you," Jim returns, not quite so enthusiastically.

"Have you come out at the department?" she asks, before blowing on her spoonful of chowder.

Jim shakes his head. "We're...ah...partners on the force. Given those circumstances, we thought it might be better to be a little discrete."

"And after Blair spent three and a half years with you, no one would even think twice about your rooming together, right?"

Jim reddens, but nods.

Naomi turns her attention back to me. "Blair was my son. He and Jim were roommates while Blair was observing the police department for his dissertation."

"Um, Naomi." Jim is really having a hard time with this conversation. For some reason that makes me feel a lot better. "Marcus knows about my...you know."

"Ahhh," she says knowingly, then smiles reassuringly at me. "Don't worry. Jim and Blair weren't lovers. At least, I don't think they were. You weren't, were you, Jim?"

Jim sputters in embarrassment and I bark out with laughter. I can't help it. People only think they can deal with my mother's directness. I once saw Henry Kissinger nearly choke on a piece of rubbery chicken at an Amnesty International fundraiser because Naomi asked how he liked taking Viagra. If the woman can make a diplomat blush, Jim doesn't stand a chance of getting out of this conversation unscathed.

Jim glowers at me, not appreciating my amusement, which only makes me laugh harder. He whacks me on the back several times, convinced I'm choking, forgetting momentarily in his embarrassment, that this is how I now laugh.

"I'm sorry, Marcus, I shouldn't have asked that question." While Naomi is smiling, there is a sadness in her eyes. "After all, our situation is sort of like meeting the parents of the first wife."

I can't help it, I chuckle again.

"But I want you to know," she says in a more serious tone. "That...that I'm happy Jim has found someone to love again." She lowers her head for a moment, then raises it and focuses her gaze on me. "He loved my son, you know?"

"I know," I whisper, barely breathing.

"Blair died five years ago."

I nod, the humor completely drained from my body as I hear the quiet anguish in her voice.

"I wish you could have met my son. I was so proud of him," she whispers, her gaze never leaving mine. "And while I told him, I don't know if he ever really understood how deep that pride truly went. You see, my life is such that I am always flittering around from one cause to another. Blair became independent very young, starting on his own path when he was still practically a baby, and it seemed as the years progressed that our paths rarely crossed. But it didn't mean I didn't love him, that he wasn't the center of my world." She struggles to control her emotions, then continues, "I just wish he knew how much he meant to me."

"He knew," I croak out, unable to bear her pain. She starts to shake her head, but I cut her off, reaching across the table and taking her hand in mine. "All one has to do is look into your face to see your love."

Tears stream down her face, but she doesn't wipe them away. "You really think so?"

"I do." My voice is choked with emotion and I am forced to clear it in order to continue. "Blair was a very lucky man."

"Thank you," she whispers. "You have no idea what that means to me."

I nod and give her hand a squeeze, preparing to let go, but she somehow manages to flip her hand so that she is now gripping mine. I meet her gaze and she smiles gently at me. I can't help myself, I smile back.

Her watch beeps, breaking the spell that holds us in stasis.

"I have to go," she whispers apologetically. "I have a plane to catch."

"But you'll be back?"

She nods. Neither one of us withdraws our hand from the other.

Jim stands and moves into my old room, gathering her items, while we stay rooted in our chairs.

"I...I could always cancel," she offers, barely above a whisper even as a horn honks from below, no doubt her taxi.

I shake my head, telling her it isn't necessary.

When Jim comes back into the room, she stands, never releasing my hand. I'm forced to stretch over our plates as I scoot around the table.

"Jim," she says, trying, somewhat successfully, to put on a bright smile, "I'll be back this way in six weeks. Do you mind if I stop by?"

"Of course not. Blair's room is yours whenever you want it for as long as you want it."

They hug semi-awkwardly because she refuses to release my hand.

The three of us head downstairs, Jim carrying her baggage and purse, while she clutches my hand as if it's a lifeline. When we reach the taxi, Jim gives us a moment by talking to the driver and putting her bags into the trunk.

"I...like you, M...Marcus," she says softly. "I'd really like the opportunity to get to know you better if you don't mind."

"I'd like that," I mouth.

"Maybe spend a few days together?"

I nod.

She leans forward and brushes her lips over my forehead. "You'll take care of Jim?"

I nod again, unable to speak.

Jim opens the back door for her, and she turns, still holding my hand, and gives him a kiss. "I'm sorry we didn't have more time this trip."

"We'll make the time next time you're in town."

"Six weeks, tops."

"We'll be here," he promises.

She kisses Jim tenderly on the lips, then turns back to face me. Her smile radiates joy and she throws her head back and laughs joyously as if her body can't hold the emotion in for another second. She leans in, kisses me on the mouth then releases my hand and all but jumps into the cab. Jim shuts the door and she raises her hand and presses it to the glass. As if drawn by a magnet, I step forward and press my hand on the other side.

The taxi pulls slowly away from the curb and I follow it practically into the middle of the street as it moves away. I watch as it heads down Prospect, then watch until it turns from my view.

Without a word, I move back into the building and climb the stairs. Jim follows behind but says nothing.

When we return to the apartment, he moves immediately into the kitchen and turns off the heat under the chowder. He putters in the kitchen, finding several Tupperware bowls and splitting the soup between them for future meals.

I pace around the loft, unsure what to do with myself. The balcony doors catch my attention and I look over the city, a city which isn't looking quite so dark at the moment.

"Jim," I call out, not knowing what I want, just needing him.

He's standing behind me before his name is completely out of my mouth. His warm arms wrap tightly around me, his chin rests gently on my shoulder.

"She knew," I whisper.

"She knew."

"And..."

"She accepts."

"She accepts," my voice breaks, knowing she isn't going to push me into making a confession, knowing she'll be happy with whatever time Marcus chooses to give her, knowing that it doesn't matter whether I'm Blair or Marcus, that she still loves me more than anything else in the world.

"Jim," I call out again, scared by the implications, and find myself turned and wrapped even tighter in his arms.

"I have you, babe," he whispers in my ear, his voice choking with happy tears. "I have you."

My hands clench Jim's shirt as I finally allow myself to accept the most precious gift ever given to Marcus -- his mother's love.


	7. Peace, At Last (incomplete)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this series, I knew there were going to be seven stories. I even started writing the seventh story.
> 
> And then I forgot what it was about.
> 
> Still, I thought I'd share what I had.
> 
> If I ever remember where I was going with it, I'll finish it.

Five years ago, Sandburg came back into my life. And while I can't say the last five years have been the easiest years I've ever experienced, they have been the happiest, most fulfilling years of my existence. I wouldn't trade one second of our time together. Not one fraction of a second. People think I'm nuts for putting up with what I do, but all I have to do is remember how he put up with me during the before time or how desolate my life was when he was gone.

Like I said, I wouldn't trade a moment.

The before time. Heh. I sound like the narration to a Mad Max movie. The before time is when I lived with Blair Sandburg, hyperactive grad student, police observer, and guide extraordinary. For three years, he walked by my side and pulled rabbits out of his backpack with regards to my senses. I have never met anyone able to think on his feet like he did. He was my salvation and my sanity. And to my great shame, I must admit I didn't treat him very well…for a number of reasons.

Some of it had to do with the fact that I tied him and my senses so close together. If I accepted him, then I had to accept my senses. It all seems rather childish now. There was, of course, the growing attraction to him as well. We were with each other twenty-four/seven. We had no personal boundaries, no definite lines of where each of us began and ended. I was thirty-six years old and just realizing that I might be gay. Not an easy pill to swallow.

After Alex had drowned him, there were *no* boundaries. We had merged on a spiritual level. The only plane left was physical. I railed against him, as if somehow he were responsible for our plight, held him to a standard no one could possibly have lived up to, although God love him, he tried. It was while I was submerged in the grotto that I finally realized what we were to each other.

Ironic, that once I got over my anger, he found his.

But before we could work things out, he was taken, all traces of his life obliterated. The remains found in the burned out wreckage of his Volvo were so decimated as to be useless. The dental records we thought we kept in secret only confirmed his death.

The barrenness of the next five years are indescribable. I tortured myself with 'what ifs'. I alternated between wanting my senses as a living tribute to him and hating them for reminding me what I had lost. I had nightmares that he had been taken by the government and that I was next. I went so far as to tie up all my affairs, pay my debts, updated my will, and wait for our reunion. But it never came.

Life slowly plodded along. Simon, Megan, Joel, heck even Naomi, were instrumental in my salvation, of helping me piece my life back together again, to learn how to live without him.

People say that grief dims with time and while that is true to a certain extent, they rarely talk about the fact that the ache never truly goes away. My grief was manageable…if I kept busy, which I did. My job became my life. When I had to deal with personal issues, it was usually to help Steven with his family, to reconnect with Dad or have the occasional dinner with Naomi.

Simon and I still hung out, although nowhere as much as we did when Blair was with us. It was too easy to picture Blair sitting between us, laughing in that non-self-conscious way he had when we used to give him crap. The biweekly poker games kept me in touch with the lives of my fellow detectives, but as far as dating, I couldn't bring myself to do it, didn't want to inflict my pain on an innocent.

It wasn't until I looked out the window of Toreros that I learned to breathe again. All because of the smile of a bystander who lingered a little too long looking at a plate-glass window, because of familiar blue eyes which screamed out for recognition despite the hard, aloof face of the stranger looking back at me.

I made so many mistakes those first forty-eight hours that even today I cringe. I was so happy to have Blair back that I couldn't see that he had changed, had evolved in order to survive. In his desperation to belong again, he tried to give me what I wanted -- he tried to become Blair Sandburg again. But in the end, he failed.

It was only as I was watching him go down for the last time that I realized my mistake and embraced Marcus, the man he became.

Marcus wasn't bouncy. His movements were controlled. He didn't speak enthusiastically about subjects, didn't spout his vast fount of information, although it still existed. Marcus never draws attention to himself, never seeks recognition or praise. He simply does the job set out before him. And he never, ever, fails. I like to think of myself as driven, but Marcus makes me look like a slacker in comparison.

The first time I suggested his becoming a cop, he laughed himself sick, as he did the second, third and fourth times I mentioned it. He only stopped laughing when I drew up my resignation. I meant it when I said we would go through life together. We would either be cops, or whatever he wanted to be. Hell, I would have become a mercenary if that's what he wanted to do.

I saw something in his eyes that day, something to this day I can't identify. Gratitude, resignation, love, hate. I don't know what it was exactly. All I know is that he agreed to apply for a position. Being a government agent in many ways was a step down. While there had been a hiring freeze in place for almost a year, the brass bent over backward to hire him onto the team. He didn't have to go to academy, although for propriety sake they did make him test out of all the courses and take firearms qualifications which he passed with such flying colors it was almost embarrassing.

He was put under Simon's command, which was…difficult, to say the least.

Marcus was not happy about the way he was outed at the station, nor was he happy that Simon put official inquiries over the wires about him. They clashed from the start and it was u-g-l-y. Marcus played by his own rules and there was nothing Simon could do or say to stop him. While the brass was aware of the internal strife, they were thrilled with our results so tended to turn a deaf ear to Simon's pleas for help in backing his authority.

The only person to have any sort of control over Marcus was Joel, amazingly enough. All Joel had to do was whisper Marcus' name and he would instantly quiet. Joel was instrumental in keeping the bullpen from breaking into open warfare those first two years.

After a while, Simon and Marcus came to an understanding, even a friendship. The universe has an ironic sense of humor. Once upon a time, Blair Sandburg had bent over backwards to become Simon’s friend. Today, I know how precious Marcus’ friendship is to Simon as he considers it hard-fought and won.

Shortly after Marcus was being assigned to Major Crimes, we somehow got tagged with the name "The Terminator Squad." Honest to God, during the last year we've literally had criminals give themselves up when they hear we've been assigned to a case.

Unfortunately, our reputation has also made us bigger targets in the eyes of the underworld. I won't even go into the number of near-misses we've survived as criminals tried to make a name for themselves by taking us out. They’ve all failed though. Our connection is so complete now, that we have achieved almost a psychic bond. In the long run, our survival has only solidified our status to being consider the protector demi-gods of Cascade. The first time we heard this phrase Sandburg just grinned ferally and told the punk in question that he demanded tribute. And damn if the kid hasn’t turned into our best snitch.

Of course, by getting so good, we’ve also come under the scrutiny of the feds. Sandburg takes great delight in completely humiliating the ones with an agenda. To the ones who are open and honest, he treats as equals.

The first time the feds sent an agent with heightened senses I thought Sandburg was going to come unglued. Within five minutes he had the agent writhing in agony on the floor. To this day, no one has a clue how he did it. One minute we’re discussing the case, the next Jones is on the floor begging for mercy.

Sandburg pretended he had no idea what the agent was talking about. The man literally crawled across the room and groveled at Sandburg’s feet.

Sandburg looked down at the agent and hissed, “Tell Anderson I’m on to his little games and I’m tired of playing.”

The agent didn’t even try to pretend he didn’t know what Sandburg was talking about.

“Tell him I’ll kill the next one of you he sends. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I swear I’ll tell him.”

“And tell him I will be coming to him soon with my demand of payment.”

I don’t know about the kid on the floor, but the rest of us turned white as sheets.

Two days later, Sandburg disappeared for almost twenty-four hours and refused to talk about what happened when he returned. Several times I’ve thought about pushing the subject, but he gets this look in his eyes…and I never do.

While Sandburg was a holy terror in the world, at the loft I began to see the first traces of Blair in Marcus’ personality.

Despite his becoming one of the deadliest men I know, and believe me, I know a lot of them, at home Marcus could never quite cover up Blair’s vulnerability.

Marcus was stunned by my love for him. For months he tried to figure out my agenda, tried to figure out why I loved him. For my part, I simply poured as much love as I could into him. It started with touching. The first couple of times I touched him unexpectedly, he almost twisted my arm off and I learned rather quickly never to do it in public. But home was my domain.

Blair was always something of a hedonist. It took a while for that part of his personality to bubble up again. At first, Marcus simply endured my touch, but as time went on I could tell when he needed it, when he craved it. I always figured out a way to do it nonchalantly. I almost shouted in triumph the first time he leaned into a touch.

For months, I was the one who initiated any kind of foreplay. Once we started, he responded with his whole heart, but he couldn’t quite seem to bring himself to make the first move himself, as if he feared I’d reject him.


	8. The Path Less Travelled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think this stems from my brain trying to wrap things up in a neat package.

You would think after five years some part of the hyperactive grad student everyone knew and loved would eventually peek through Marcus’ personality, but you’d be wrong. You’d also be mistaken if you thought that time would make him any less deadly than he was the day I literally snatched him back into my life. However, despite the deadly façade, Marcus still possesses the same caring soul Blair did.

Case in point, over the years he has taken in over a dozen sentinels and taught them how to control their gifts. For the ones who are too weak to do it on their own, he’s managed to find them guides. As a teacher, he is a taskmaster for he knows the price his students will pay if they are unable to manage their senses. Failure means that someone with more power and control than they have will use them for their own agenda. His students regard him with a mixture of awed respect and hate, yet hang on his every word.

Sometimes I think that besides Joel, I might be the only other person on the planet who sees the gentle side of the man I once thought too soft to survive police work.

While Marcus rarely laughs, I can still see amusement dance in his eyes – Blair’s eyes. While it’s Marcus’ lean body that drives me to distraction, it’s Blair’s gentle hands that coax me to the edge of ecstasy and back again. It’s Blair’s breath that still fills my soul.

It’s taken me a while to reconcile the man Marcus is with the man he used to be. God knows, I would never have chosen this path for Blair or myself. But having walked this path less traveled, I can honestly say it has made all the difference.


	9. Continuance

Be sure to check out Rhyo's story in this same universe: [Continuance](http://www.852prospect.org/archive/archive/17/resurrectioncontinuance.html)

Also check out: [Rogue](http://polly-bywater.dreamwidth.org/39377.html#cutid1) by Polly_Bywater


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